


Scooby-Doo! & The Snowman Killer

by KDtheGhostwriter



Category: Scooby Doo - All Media Types, The Snowman (2017)
Genre: Crime Scenes, Crossover, Detectives, Forensics, Kidnapping, Murder Mystery, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-04-17 10:58:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 35,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14187432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KDtheGhostwriter/pseuds/KDtheGhostwriter
Summary: Scandinavian detective Harry Hole is famous for always bringing in the perp, no matter the cost, even if it takes him to the ends of the Earth. But Norway's first serial killer, The Snowman, has terrorized the region for a decade and a new batch of murders has the inspector at the end of his wits. That is until Harry's department head in Oslo hires a consultant third-party. A group of Americans, to be exact, and their Great Dane mascot.





	1. Detour

**Author's Note:**

> Aight. Some Backstory.
> 
> The Snowman adaptation was an adventure, but not really in the way you want a movie to be. So here we are again: continuing the tradition of rewriting flicks panned by the viewing public. But really, I just wanted practice writing a detective story. Here are some notes before you get started.
> 
> Reader Discretion: Course language, brief but strong violence, allusions to Depression, substance abuse and similar themes.
> 
> Full Disclosure: I've read the book, too, and found it to be good not great. If you're a fan of the book or Norwegian or both, don't take it too seriously. It's ya boi, KD. So you already know it's getting retconned all to shit.
> 
> -Harry is from Norway. Thus, his last name is pronounced Hoo-leh. The movie...pronounced it the other way.
> 
> -The decision to make this a crossover greatly preceded that _other_ crossover. My only thought before drafting this story was, "But Scooby makes everything better, tho."
> 
> -I've actually had this done for some time, but set it aside to focus on research for _The Way of The Batman_. I came across it while reorganizing things and said, "Guess I should post this, huh?"

“You have to go, then?”

“It’s getting late, Erik.”

“Not even, Birte. It’s hardly past ten.”

“Yes, and it’s past bedtime for Jonas. He shouldn’t be alone when he’s sleeping.”

“Suppose you’re right.”

“What’s wrong?”

“You and Jonas don’t have to be alone. You should both be here with me.”

“His father-”

“Doesn’t live with you. He’s not your husband anymore.”

“He is. For another month at least.”

“Damn paperwork…”

“Hey. It’s alright. I’ll…think about what you said.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I think it could be nice.”

“Better than nice. I love you.”

“Oh! You keep saying that.”

“Because I mean it. Good night, Birte.”

“Good night, Erik.”

Birte Becker, a brunette woman in her mid-thirties, is walking away from her companion’s doorstep, back towards the modest car she’s parked in the nearby lot. It’s not a far walk from his building, and she politely rejected his offer to walk her back. She could look after herself surely, but she has her key fob in her hand ready to disembark quickly.

_thump!_

The snowball on her shoulder is unmistakable and she turns to see where it came from. Then the implication of a snowball from nowhere creeps up on her and she freezes, about to call out into the frigid winter night.

She decides it’s a second too long and continues walking, thumbing the button that unlocks her car. Birte hops in and ignites the engine. She doesn’t bother letting her vehicle warm up as she backs out of the lot and drives back to the main road.

 

\-------------------------

 

Ten-year-old Jonas is peering into his mother’s room. Through the dark, he sees a digital clock that reads a quarter past midnight. It’s odd. Not that she’s gone. Jonas knew about his mother’s meetings with her guy friend from college. He even encouraged them, as subtlety as a young boy could. He wanted her to be happy, but it wasn’t like her to be this late.

Jonas walks back down the hall to retrieve his bowl of chips from the kitchen. He’s on break, so it really doesn’t matter what time he’s off to bed, but he decides to skip the TV altogether and peek out the front window.

A fresh snow has fallen. The first of the season. A dense layer of powder covers the ground in all places, except for the streets that have been treated, and the driveway where his mother’s car once stood. Unbroken, undisturbed: snowflakes glisten in the streaks of moonlight that pop through the gaps in the mild overcast. Even without full illumination, Jonas can see it.

The snowman appeared earlier that day. Jonas had never made a snowman in his life, so he was confident in saying he had no idea where it came from. His mother claimed the same thing, but it certainly looked like she made it – a small, misshapen thing. A top and a bottom with no midsection.

The cloud cover clears long enough to afford a better look, and Jonas sees something he didn’t before. Unlike other snowmen, that face passersby on the street, this snowman is facing the house. It’s facing him. He can tell it’s facing him because of the two puny twigs too small for its body poking into the sides. And then there’s the face. No nose and no hat, but there is a face, frowning. Not that every snowman needs a goofy grin on their face, but something about this one seems…off.

Jonas lets the curtain fall closed. He takes a chip from the bowl and makes his way back to his room. He will go back to sleep soon, and he figures his mother will be back to greet him with breakfast by the time he wakes in the morning.

 

\-------------------------

 

** ONE WEEK LATER **

 

“Welp. This is it, gang! Welcome to Norway!”

Fred Jones was bundled up tight like the two young women that flanked him. His longtime friends and now partners in their private investigative agency, Mystery Incorporated. Fred informed them that a job was waiting for the team in Scandinavia, but he was scant with further details. The woman on his right reminds him of this.

“Nice intro, Freddie. But you still haven’t told us what we’re here to do.”

“I told you before we took off, Daph! We’re on a job.”

“We’re aware of that,” says the other woman from around her red scarf. “What Daphne means is that we don’t know what that job is.”

“It’s the biggest one we’ve taken yet, Velma. If we can crack this case, we’ll be set up for years!”

“Uh-huh. And what about Shaggy and Scooby?”

“What about them?”

Daphne gasps. “Freddie! You didn’t tell them!”

“I was…getting around to it. Ooh! Here they come, now.”

Two forms come bounding through the gate. One is a tall, lanky man wearing board shorts. The other isn’t a man at all – a Great Dane, holding a suitcase from its mouth.

“Like, here we are, Scoob! Nothing but white sand and blue, blue waters! Vacation here we come!”

No one has the chance to stop them as they sprint away in the direction of the front door. The three left standing at the terminal stare after them, then Daphne shoots an uneasy look at Fred.

“Did he say vacation?”

Velma gestures something between a nod and shake. “Those two never were very perceptive.”

“Fred,” Daphne says, turning to him, “why did you tell them that?”

“They kept complaining about a vacation on the last job, so I told them we’d take one.” He puts his hands up to shield himself from Daphne’s glare. “Don’t look at me! It was the only way they’d get on the plane!”

The group looks up at the sound of teeth chattering and knees knocking. Scooby is visibly perturbed and Shaggy has two cases of luggage clutched tight against his chest, searching for any source of warmth.

“Fred, like, w-w-why does the sign outside say Oslo Airp-p-port?”

“Cause we’re in Oslo! Surprise!”

Suddenly, Shaggy’s skin tone shifts from a tinge of blue to a flushed red, almost in seconds. He removes the luggage from his chest and holds it aloft in his hands.

“This is not cool, man! You said we were going on vacation!”

“We _are_ on vacation! A work vacation!”

“Come on, man! Why couldn’t you just tell us?”

“I thought you’d figure it out, eventually. I wasn’t exactly being covert.”

“I knew that layover in Atlanta was fishy! See Scoob, I told ya, the Pacific Ocean is the _other_ way!”

Scooby let go of the handle in his mouth. “I don’t know what you want from me, Raggy. I’m just a dog!”

“Like, you’re right Scooby-Doo. I shouldn’t get mad at you.”

Without warning, Shaggy drops both briefcases into Fred’s arms and storms off. Scooby grabs his bag with his front paws, gets up on his haunches and tosses it onto the pile, sending Fred tumbling backwards to the floor. Scooby catches up to Shaggy, who is muttering something about finding a coat to buy; Fred is left looking up at Dapne and Velma, who are shaking their heads at him. He offers a lopsided smile.

“I thought they handled it well!”


	2. Nobody's Perfect

Inspector Harry Hole wakes up in his sullen Oslo apartment and discovers the pounding noise rousing him is different than the pounding in his head. Hungover again: the knocks at his door go off like shotgun blasts in his ears. He rolls out of bed, the sheet draped around his hips. It doesn’t matter who’s waiting on the other side; he needs to answer them so they’ll stop.

He stops then and reaches under the bed to pull on a worn-in pair of pants and sweater. Even with a frantic night’s sleep behind him, he’s just sober enough to decide that standing in the doorway in late Autumn, naked as a newborn wolf cub isn’t the sharpest thing to do.

On his way is the station-issued Glock nine, concealed behind his back in case his eager visitor happened to be an old friend with thoughts of getting brave. Harry looks through the peep hole and sighs, dropping the gun in his key bowl. He opens the door far enough to take in the man on the other side, dressed in a rubber contamination suit, face obscured by a breathing mask.

“Hello there, sir. Stormann’s the name. I’m-”

“No, no. It’s the fine the…” _snap! snap!_ “The mold specialist. The one I called. I meant to send you this earlier.” Harry leans back to the key bowl, scuffles past the gun and picks up the spare key. “Here’s a key to the place. Wipe your feet before you come in. Don’t leave a mess.”

“I’ll do my best, Inspector.” The specialist stops Harry before he turns away fully. “One more thing. These two fellows wanted a word with you.”

Harry opens the door wide to let the man through. Beyond the threshold stands a young man with a scruffy goatee and long unkempt hair poking from underneath his stocking cap. A Great Dane stands next to him. It’s a huge dog, but still young as far as Harry can tell. It has some growing to do, which is a scary thought.

“Hello Mister Policeman, sir. We were sent here to scoop you up.”

“Right. And who the hell are you?”

“Like, my name is Norville, but everyone calls me Shaggy.”

“Wonder why.” Harry steps to the dog and scratches behind its ear. “What’s your name, boy?”

“I’m Scooby-Doo!”

Harry snaps his hand away and cradles it against his ribcage. He shoots a look at Shaggy, who hasn’t reacted at all, like this all was a totally normal occurrence. Harry runs a hand down his face, exasperated already.

“I must still be drunk. Did that dog just speak to me?”

“Who, Scoob?” Shaggy runs a comforting pat up and down Scooby’s nape. “Oh yeah, man! Like, he talks to everybody!”

Scooby speaks again - like a normal dog should, by barking - and then stands on his hind legs to lick Harry across the face. Sputtering, Harry bats him away and tries to put on the most menacing look he can manage. It doesn’t work. Scooby is sitting down, panting happily, like nothing ever happened.

Harry looks back to Shaggy. “You said ‘they’ sent you to get me.”

“Mhm. The big honchos sent us to this address. Said something about a snowman?”

Harry double-takes at the word. Not because of the word itself. A snowman appearing in November in Norway wasn’t news on the slowest day. A snowman appearing after the first snowfall of the season?

“Fuck,” Harry says.

 

\-------------------------

 

“Ah! Look what the pooch dragged in!”

“Piss off, Magnus.”

Officer Magnus Skarre calls after Harry as he passes, who ignores him and continues into the main conference room of the Oslo PD Crime Squad. Shaggy and Scooby are close behind and sneak past Harry as he greets Officer Helle from the Missing Persons Unit.

“What have we got, Thomas?”

“Same as two years ago, Harry. Young woman disappears in the night.” Thomas taps his way down the report on his clipboard. “No break-ins. No signs of violence. And no signs of her or her vehicle.” He hands the report to Harry. “Almost like she up and left.”

“She didn’t,” Harry says, rather short. “Or else I wouldn’t be here. Hm. Who’s Jonas?”

“Her son. Called his dad after the first night.”

A beat. “How long has this woman been gone?”

“Few days now.”

“And the father filed the report?”

“He did.”

“Shit,” Harry sighed. “Okay, then. Says they’re in Hoffsveien. Not god awful. Let me get some coffee flowing and I’ll be ready to go.”

“Afraid you won’t, Harry.”

Harry nearly bumps noses with Skarre as he turns, oozing his annoyance.

“What in blazes are you going on about?”

“If you would put a hold on your shitty know-it-all routine for a moment, I could tell you.”

Skarre is pointing past Harry as he speaks. The latter turns around to see a group of people at one of the long tables, presumably jotting notes of what’s been discussed – brief as it may be. It’s the man and dog plus three more. He walks to the other side of the room and stands waiting until he is acknowledged.

“Norville, I assume these folks are with you.”

“Sure are. Allow me to introduce you to the team.”

“The team?” Harry does not have a nice history with that word.

“Velma Dinkley.”

“Daphne Blake.”

“Fred Jones Jr. Mystery Incorporated at your service!”

“Perfect.” Harry whipped around to face Skarre with a scowl in his voice. “You’re responsible for this, then? Tell me, Skarre, what damn sense does it make to have four-”

“Hey!”

It was Scooby who took offence to that and Harry amended himself.

“Sorry. Five. What’s the point of sending five ‘detectives’ to investigate a missing persons case. Especially my case! I’m the best damn detective in Norway!”

“The biggest dickhead in Norway, maybe.”

That proclamation comes from the head of the Crime Division, Gunnar Hagen. He has a greying beard, but a full head of hair that betrays the stress of the job. He shoots a look at Harry - who has yet to dispute him - and drops an open box of day-old bagels on the floor. Scooby happily scarfs them down.

“I made the call to Mystery Incorporated, Harry. We’ve been through this before. You’re on probation. I’d rather not have you traipsing around unaccounted for.”

“This about Bergen again? What more do you want, Gunnar? I took over the operation and solved the case like you asked!”

“But at what cost?” Hagen cuts him off with the palm of his hand. “Don’t answer my rhetorical question, Inspector Dickhead! It cost a cool Two Mil. Not to mention the life of your partner, Jack Halvorsen! The superintendent said she wanted a third party to monitor progress and I sent for the best available.”

Harry begrudgingly moves aside to let Hagen address their American guests. He picked them out as American immediately, spotting their discarded gloves and scarves. The sure sign of people not accustomed to a climate – overdressed. If they stayed long enough, they’d see exactly how necessary those gloves were.

“Now that’s been sorted,” Hagen says to Fred. “Do we need to update you on any details?”

“Nope! Your friend Harry kindly supplied us.”

Hagen chuckles at the word friend. Harry chuckles at kindly.

“So, what do I owe you kids? Business is business, after all.”

Velma speaks up: “Actually, sir, you won’t owe us a dime unless we solve the mystery.”

“Oh, my! Timely and economic. You’re hired! Skarre. You and Harry are on the first thing smoking to Hoff. See what you can dig up.”

“Road trip, Scooby?”

“Road trip, Raggy!”

The pair of pals scuttle out of the conference room; Skarre turns to smirk at Harry and follows them out. Fred leaves with Daphne, who is listening politely as he goes on about some noise or another. Harry can’t be bothered to decipher it, but he does take notice of the shorter Velma coming up next to him. She looks at him carefully from behind thick lenses and he realizes, sheepishly, that he’s scouted the true investigator of the bunch. And she’s done the same.

“Your friends are idiots,” Harry says after a second of thought.

Velma sighs with a nod but smiles just the same. “True. But they’re _my_ idiots.”

 

\-------------------------

 

“I’m so glad you could come, officers. It’s so unlike Birte to do this.”

“About how long have you known Mrs. Becker, then?”

Skarre takes notes as Harry interviews Ebba Bendiksen, a neighbor from across the street. After Jonas spent another day at home by himself, he became wary and made the trek to Ebba’s house to ask after his mother. She then made a call to the boy’s father, Filip, who had been on a business trip to Bergen.

He is allegedly on his way back as they speak. Until then, Jonas is lying next to Scooby watching cartoons as Ebba continues speaking with the detectives.

“Ever since she and Filip moved in ten years ago. She was still pregnant with Jonas then. Her little miracle child, she calls him.”

Skarre glances up from his notepad. “Miracle, you say?”

“Oh, yes!” Ebba peers back at Jonas. He clearly isn’t paying them any mind, but she lowers her voice anyway. “The father he- Well, they had been trying beforehand with no luck and the doctor they saw told them that Filip was infertile.”

“Not too infertile,” Harry says.

“That’s the thing!” Ebba agrees excitedly. “Poor Birte thought something was wrong with her. She prayed for a child. Even just one. I suppose you could say Jonas has been a blessing in all our lives.”

Ebba speaks the last part of her sentence louder. If Jonas hears, he gives no indication. After a moment he scoots closer to the dog on the carpet beside him. Harry exchanges a look with Skarre, nods, and the latter man exits the front door.

“Anything else we should know?”

“My first inclination is to say no, Officer.”

Harry turns to the open door to see a middle-aged man no younger than himself stride in and begin removing his coat. He tosses it over the arm of the nearby sofa and picks up the remote, sending the television screen to black.

“Jonas,” he says tersely, “son, what have I told you about watching TV during the day?”

“It’s not daytime right now, father.”

“The street lamps aren’t yet on, which means it’s still daytime. Up to your room. I’ll bet you haven’t finished that worksheet I prepared.”

“No, I haven’t,” Jonas says, and he makes for the stairs without another word. Scooby gets up and follows the boy, not before turning up his nose at Mr. Becker.

“Leave the boy alone, Filip!” Ebba fusses. “He’s on holiday, after all!”

“That’ll be all Mrs. Bendiksen. Thanks again for watching Jonas.”

“Not a problem at all! He was a dear!”

The older woman leaves, and Filip closes the door and gestures to the stairs.

“Who brought a dog in the house?”

“He’s with me.” Harry pulls his badge, extending it toward Filip, who tips his glasses up his nose to read the name on the front of the I.D.

“I see,” Filip says, standing up. “You’re the famous detective.”

“I’m a detective, anyway. I have a few questions about your wife.”

The air around Filip shifts, darkens almost. Maybe it’s instinct, or maybe he’s been in Oslo too long, but Harry notices immediately.

“Talking about Birte, of course.”

“I know who she is, Officer.”

“She _is_ your wife, isn’t she?”

“Technically. Yes.”

“A divorce?”

“Court date pending. Irreconcilable differences. You have an idea.”

“Not really. Never been married.”

“Makes sense, I guess.”

The older man leaves for the kitchen without a word. Harry trails behind and watches as Filip flips on the coffee maker. Harry pulls his always-empty notepad from his coat pocket out of habit and lets Filip speak first.

“If you’d like me to tell you where I think she went, I’ll tell you now I have no clue.” Harry taps the pen head on the paper absently. “I can tell you where _I_ was, though.”

“A bit early for that but, you can, if you want.”

“I was at a conference in Bergen. Would have been there one more day had it not been for-”

“Right. You’re a professor. Miss Ebba told me you were on business. What do you teach exactly?”

“Physics. Most of it theoretical but some of it practical, too. Then again,” Filip pauses to sip from the mug of bitter, unsweetened coffee. “The physics of anything are so absurd that it’s hard to call any of it practical.”

“Why teach it, then?”

“The challenge, Herr Hole. The reason human kind has come so far is because we dared to figure out how things work. The very fabric of what we are. As a detective, you must understand.”

“I don’t work in theory, Professor. I believe what I can see.” Harry re-conceals the notepad. “Right now, I can’t see any evidence that your wife didn’t leave of her own volition.”

Harry purposefully uses that term to describe Birte. It’s technically correct but not what Filip wants to hear right now. He is stoic but betrays his feeling by tapping his finger loudly against the ceramic of his mug.

“You think she would leave her only child alone in the dead of night?”

“It’s been known to happen before,” Harry says, affecting a shrug. “People get depressed. People get stressed. People lose their minds. Sometimes they turn up in another country entirely. Sometimes it’s just down the block. The length of time she’s been gone is concerning, but I’d rather not alarm the boy by making that pronouncement until I’m sure.”

Filip takes a pull of coffee from his mug, frowning from behind the lip. “How thoughtful. What do you want?”

“With your permission, a look in her room. To see if she’s taken anything with her.”

“Up the stairs and to the left. When you’re done, take your mutt with you.”

 

It’s a compulsion for Harry to yank another man’s chain. He finds it far too easy. But there are practical reasons just as the good professor referred to. He needs permission to search the man’s house without asking for it: admittedly for convenience. Harry also needs his own reassurance. He knows Birte Becker didn’t leave on her own. He knows what is more likely to have happened and he wants so badly to be wrong.

There’s nothing out of place in the master bedroom. The closet is full; no suitcases are missing. Even the toiletries are perfectly in place. It does nothing to debunk his actual theory. Then, he hears a voice from elsewhere on the second floor. It sounds deep and sluggish, almost like the words have come from a mouth not meant for speech. He remembers suddenly and pokes his head into the hallway.

“Scooby-Doo?”

“In here!”

Harry follows the voice across the hall. Scooby is on the floor, next to the desk that Jonas is seated in. Jonas is indeed making his way through the worksheet. It’s a full page of math problems. Two technically, as the proximity of the top row of problems to the margin indicates that Filip made sure to squeeze as many of them as he could on the back page. Harry pats the boy on the shoulder as he passes and runs a hand through a pink scarf on the bedpost.

“Is this yours, Jonas?”

“It’s my mom’s. It was outside on the snowman.”

“Didn’t want him to get cold, perhaps?”

Jonas shakes his head, finishes another problem. “Mom wouldn’t leave her present outside.”

“Present?”

“Her Christmas present. I made it last year.”

“It’s very nice.”

Jonas stops writing about halfway down the page, opting instead to pet Scooby’s head in his lap. Harry kneels to his level and puts a hand on his shoulder. He’s only just met him, so he hopes it’s comforting.

“Did Miss Ebba tell you that we usually find people who go missing really quickly?” Jonas nods. “She’s right. We’ll find your mother. She’ll be okay. I promise.”

Scooby-Doo is no longer next to Jonas. He is sniffing the scarf. The dog nods once and pads out of the room with his nose to the ground. Harry drapes the scarf around the shoulders of Jonas before leaving the room himself.

 

“What’s gotten in to him?”

Harry got down the stairs in time to see Scooby skipping into the yard. He is currently sniffing down the driveway toward the perimeter of the property. Harry watches as he beckons for Shaggy.

“Scoob’s got the best sniffer in the business. He must be on to something.”

Harry’s expression doesn’t falter as he produces a cigarette. “We’ll leave him be. Found anything, Skarre?”

“Dinkley and I have checked with Telenor, and the base station covering Hoff is still receiving signals from Birte’s phone.”

“And?” Harry keeps his eyes on Skarre as he pats himself for a light.

“According to them, it’s somewhere on the property.”

“I searched her room top to bottom. Her son’s room, too. We’re not on Becker’s good side right now, so it might be tough to convince him to let us tear through the rest of- _Gah!_ Does anyone have a damn light?”

“Like, here you go, man!”

Harry and Skarre exchange a look of incredulity as Shaggy holds out a lighter, an unassuming grin on his face. Harry leans in and ignites the cigarette, takes a puff and points to the younger man.

“You smoke?”

Shaggy chuckles sheepishly. “Not cigarettes, my dude.”

Soon there is barking, loud enough to make Harry think the whole subdivision must be looking their way. He instructs Shaggy to go calm his dog down and when he does, he calls for Harry to join them by the half-melted snowman.

“Say again, Scoob?”

“There, there!”

“Like, the snowman?”

“Yeah yeah yeah!”

“Harry! Please do not tell me you’re about to take policing advice from a dog!”

“Thinking! Skarre!”

Harry _is_ thinking and, as crazy as it is, he _may_ be taking advice from the talking dog because, there isn’t much else he can do, and his human partner isn’t giving him much to work with. Scooby sniffs repeatedly at the pile of snow; doesn’t turn his attention for a second. Harry knows he has her scent, so he punches the head off the snowman’s thinning shoulders and digs his way down into its body. He pulls out a smartphone. It’s frigid but still functional as he discovers by poking the device awake.

The lock screen on the phone is backlit by a picture of Birte and Jonas. Seeing their faces so close together reveals something disconcerting. Jonas looks nothing like his mother. That isn’t too shocking. On the other hand, the boy doesn’t look like his father, either. Harry gives Scooby a pat of thanks, then holds up the phone for him to see.

“What else did you and Jonas get up to?”

 

\-------------------------

 

“Suppose you boys aren’t here with good news?”

“Suppose that’ll be up to you. Inspector Harry Hole. Officer Magnus Skarre. We’re from the Oslo Police District.”

Erik Lossius sighs deeply as he ushers the two men inside. He barely registers the dog trailing behind them.

“She _is_ missing then.”

“For now. We understand she had a date with you the night she disappeared.”

“Which would make me the last person to see her.”

“So it would seem,” Harry says, pulling out the empty notepad. “Is that the case?”

“Unfortunately, yes. I asked her to stay the night, you see, but she wanted to get home to Jonas.”

“You _have_ met him?”

“Met him? I witnessed his birth! A pleasant surprise, that one was!”

Harry watches for a moment as Scooby lets Erik scratch behind his ear. “And… Mr. Becker was okay with you being in the room?”

The other man’s expression sours at that, and he shoos the dog away. “Herr Becker wasn’t in the room that day. I’m sure he would have loved to be there but,” he gives a half-shrug into the cushion of his sofa, “duty calls.”

“About how long have you known the Beckers?”

“I’ve known Filip for as long as he’s been in Hoff. But Birte? A pinch over a decade. Known her since college.”

“That’s a long time. I’m surprised you two didn’t end up together.”

Erik grinned sadly with his eyes on the floor. Harry was broaching the topic that had been hanging in the air untouched until now.

“I was young and in love with her, but also out of school and flat broke. An opportunity came along I couldn’t pass up. Distance and time took care of the rest.”

“But now you’re back together?”

“A bit hard to believe, I know.”

“That’d make you a bit of a rebound, wouldn’t it?”

Skarre starts slightly. He’s used to Harry’s barely-passive aggressiveness, but it doesn’t make his interrogations any easier to sit through. Erik sits back in his chair and lets a small smirk creep onto his face.

“Did it occur to you maybe that Mr. Becker is the rebound?”

Harry tilts his head into a nod. “Fair enough, sir. Where do you think Birte might have gone?”

“She told me she was going straight home to her son.”

“I’m sure that’s true, but that isn’t what happened. I need to know if there’s anywhere else she might go. To be alone, maybe?”

Erik taps a hand lightly against his cheek. He seems to be thinking deeply. Finally, he frowns as he looks back to Harry.

“I honestly have no idea, Inspector. This just isn’t like her.”

“I’d think not. Thank you for your time. We’ll be taking a moment to search the area.” Harry digs into his coat and produces a single business card. “Call us if you remember anything else.”

 

“Do you believe him?”

Harry and Skarre are standing in the chilly evening air watching Scooby do a once over of the grounds. Harry, with another cigarette pinched between his teeth, doesn’t look his way.

“I don’t believe any suspect until the case is solved.” A drag taken. “Or until I’m given a good reason.” Exhale.

“Lives alone. Early riser. Last one to see her. Seems a bit off for a woman to leave her son alone for a rendezvous.”

“Not that off, Skarre. Not for someone who’s available.”

“Anyway, there’s no one around to corroborate the story. What do we do about that?”

“Check with his workplace. Ask for time sheets. Question his mates.”

“Harry! Ragnus! Over here!”

No reasonable person should ever get used to being beckoned by a talking dog but, as Harry begins walking towards the mailboxes, he feels he is perilously close to just that. Harry kneels down and pulls on a glove as he notices an uneven portion of snow. He wipes it clear to reveal a cloth that he picks up. There’s something inside of the cloth. He can feel it, so he rises and holds his hand out to Skarre as he unfolds the parcel. Skarre retches and backs away at the sight.

A severed finger, tinged blue from exposure to the cold, resting in Harry’s open palm.

“You caught her scent, then?” Scobby answers with various dog noises Harry can only assume are affirmative. With a curse he wraps the appendage and hands it over. “Get this in a bag. We’ll give it to Holm when we get back.”

Harry waits until Skarre is fully into the car before sliding down against the stack of mailboxes. The cigarette is still burning, but half-spent and Harry can’t bring himself to inhale at the moment. There is a wetness on his bare hand that he registers as Scooby’s nose nudging up against him.

“What’s wrong?”

Harry doesn’t take another drag as he drops the cigarette into the wet snow. He runs the gloved hand over his mouth as he stares into the mid-afternoon sky.

“I made the boy a promise.”


	3. King Of The Fall

Harry, Skarre and the others make it back to Oslo with daylight to spare. Not enough to do any significant foot work, but enough left apparently to welcome yet another new head.

“Sorry, who are you?”

“Officer Katrine Bratt: Bergen Police. I’ve been transferred for the case. It’s a pleasure, Inspector Hole.”

“Likewise. Here, watch him.”

Harry bypasses the woman’s outstretched hand to squeeze himself into his office, currently overflowing with detectives. Scooby-Doo sits down at her feet and introduces himself, which leaves Katrine to call after Harry with a “Did this dog just talk?” as he makes for his desk.

“Find anything useful?”

It’s Fred, and Harry considers his question a tick too long before remembering which member of the team he’s looking for.

“Barely. Excuse me.”

Velma is in a spare seat with her laptop open on the corner of Harry’s desk. He takes his own seat and notices the several sheets of paper covering the desktop.

“No body, no nothing?” she asks without looking from the screen.

“No body,” Harry sighs. “No nothing.”

“We were afraid of that, so the gang and I each took a stack of case files and started looking through them.”

“Cold cases. What are you looking for?”

“Any type of consistency across the board. Victims, their families, time of disappearance.”

“Anything useful?”

“Maybe. All of the victims are women. All of them were reported missing in late Autumn. And all of them appeared to be married and have children.”

“Birte Becker was separated from her husband,” Harry evokes, “but they were still married.”

“Hey all.”

Harry recognizes the voice immediately and rolls his eyes, anticipating its owner’s ridiculous turn of phrase.

“Somebody die?”

Bjørn Holm is a stout man of a rural Norwegian upbringing. His dry humor and tongue-in-cheek delivery are not always welcome by Harry during his hours at HQ and his Rastafarian hat made him look like he might be mates with Shaggy instead of a law enforcement professional. All of this regarded, he is easily Oslo’s best forensics officer and Harry made a rare personnel request to get him on his team.

“Find a seat Holm, or don’t. We may be on to something major.”

“Ah, yes. The little digit you sent me.” Holm performs a grade school slight of hand, disconnecting his index finger from its base. “Lonely housewives gone running in the night?”

“Not running,” Harry corrects him, searching a drawer in his desk. “Taken.”

“Fuck me.” Skarre, from his chair on the far side. “Again with the serial killer bit? You take one class in New York and suddenly think you’re a bleeding expert!”

“Considering that no one else in Scandinavia has ever caught a serial killer, I’d say that does make me an expert.” Harry finds what he’s looking for and slams the drawer closed. “ _The_ expert.”

The inspector takes a plain sheet of paper and hands it to Daphne after stepping to the middle portion of the room. The other occupants lean closer to get a look at the wording scrawled in angry red.

“Read that for me?”

“Sure! It says: Soon the first snow will come. And then he will appear again. The snowman. And when the snow has gone, he will have taken someone else. What you should ask yourself is this. Who made the snowman? Who makes snowmen? Who gave birth to the Murri? For the snowman doesn’t know.”

“What a freak show!” Fred says, grabbing the letter. “Where’d this come from, Harry?”

“Showed up in my mailbox two months prior to the day. No address, postmarked Oslo.”

“What’s the Murri?”

“The Murri, Skarre, was the nickname of someone who is now dead. A Murri is a-”

“An Aborigine from Queensland in Australia.”

All eyes turn to the room’s most recent guest. It’s Katrine Bratt, who is patting Scooby on the head as she speaks.

“While this Murri was alive, he killed women all over the continent. No one’s sure how many. His real name was Robin Toowoomba.”

“Serial killer,” Holm supplies. “The one you killed.”

“The very same.”

“Let me stop you right there, Hole!” Skarre pushes past Bratt, ignoring her glare and Scooby’s growl. “You’ve been trying to get everyone on your serial killer bandwagon ever since the Aussie trip made you famous. And how many times have you let the false flag go since then?”

Harry doesn’t hesitate. “Three times, at least.”

“On the nose! Maybe that FBI course you took has given you the jitters, but in case you’ve forgotten there’s been no serial killer in Norway. Ever. We have the absolute lowest murder-per-capita in the world!”

“Exactly,” Harry cut in coolly. “That’s what makes these disappearances so concerning. There’s been too many.”

Holm asks, “So, where do we begin?”

“You and your team are to treat the Becker’s house and yard as a crime scene. Do a close check of the scarf and phone. Skarre, you make a list of suspects in-”

“Comparable cases and other scum on the loose. It’s done, Boss.”

“Right. Velma, you and your friends go through the rest of those missing persons reports. Find us something concrete.”

“Mystery Inc. is on the case! Let’s get to work, guys!”

Harry’s office gets less and less cramped as all of the occupants file out. All except Katrine Bratt, who shuts the door behind them. Skarre lingers in the window before a hard look from Bratt sends him scuttling to his office. Bratt notices Harry’s inquisitive expression and meets the challenge.

“I was the only one who didn’t get assigned. I figured you were either being a prick, or just maybe you wanted a word?”

A bit of both, perhaps?

“The name Murri was never mentioned in the papers at the time,” Harry starts, slowly. “Or at all, really. Robin Toowoomba used that nickname when he was a boxer with a travelling circus.”

“I’ve read about you, Inspector Hole. In Bergen. The more advanced of us studied your most famous cases at the academy. You have somewhat of a lore going for you.”

“That’s too bad. What else do you know about me?”

“I know about the drinking,” she says, before adding, “if that’s what you mean,” as an aside.

Harry scoffs to try and get around the queasiness that’s skulked up his throat.

“‘The drinking,’ she says. Was that on the final exam?”

“Why do you let him speak to you like that?” The subject change is abrupt, but Harry adjusts. “He’s clearly a sod.”

“You mean Skarre? Well, he is, but he’s also a good detective in spite of himself. What he lacks in natural talent he makes up for in effort. The man works hard, in part because I let him challenge me.”

“Feed the egos to keep morale high?”

“The egos feed themselves. But if I let them form their own theories, no one has to convince them when they’re wrong.”

“A balanced discourse is healthy.”

“Indeed, it is. So, tell me.” Harry crosses his arms. “Is Birte Becker dead?”

Bratt averts her gaze for the slightest moment, but answers clear and confident. “As a dodo. Skarre may be an idiot but I know you’re not. What do you think is going on, really?”

Harry uncrosses his arms and picks up the anonymous letter, produced on a standard inkjet printer.

“It’s been the same across Norway for ten years now. Always starts on the first snowfall. Sometimes four people go missing in a season. Sometimes just one. Always with a calling card. He calls himself The Snowman Killer. And he’s absolutely insane.”

A high-pitched ringing fills the office and Harry grabs for his pocket instinctively. He realizes then, it’s his landline that’s ringing – seldom used. He moves to the desk and, after returning the letter to its drawer, presses a button to put the caller on speaker.

“This is Hole.”

_“Inspector, there are two young ladies here in the lobby who’d like to see you.”_

Harry clears his throat, ignores Bratt’s pointed look.

“Let them know I’ll be right down, please.”

_“Yes, sir.”_

“A bit misleading,” Harry says immediately after ending the call. “It’s my ex and her daughter.”

“ _Your_ daughter?”

Harry’s lips curve around the word ‘No’ before it begins. It’s factual, but not the full story.

“ _Her_ daughter. Husband was Russian. I…stepped in after he left.”

“I bet they appreciated that.”

“Depends on the day. You know about my work, Officer Bratt, so you can help our American visitors review the casework. I trust you know what you’re looking for?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. I’ll see you tomorrow, Harry.”

 

Harry has his bag over his shoulder as he leaves the elevator on the ground floor. Rakel stands idle near the front desk as her teenaged daughter Josephine meets him halfway to initiate their personal handshake. A series of slaps and holds: dreamed up by Josephine.

“Have a good day, old-timer?”

“Not too bad, Sprout.”

“Find any bodies?”

“Nope, not a one.”

“Well, I guess you’d want it that way.”

“Not so much for this case. But you shouldn’t worry about that, love. What about your studies?”

A small sigh as Josephine adjusts the backpack on her shoulders. “All’s well. Outside of math, of course.”

“Math? I thought you loved math?”

“I do! But the course I’m taking now is especially difficult.”

“Oh?”

“College Algebra,” she rolls her eyes as if the course itself has butt in on their conversation. “It’s disgusting really, but I get to transfer the credits to University. So, if I pass, I never have to worry about it again!”

Harry can see Rakel’s reaction from over her daughter’s shoulder and can tell it’s less than pleasant. Knowing that, he smiles and encourages the girl.

“Sounds like a good plan to me. Maybe I can give you a hand sometime.”

“Josephine,” Rakel says pointedly. “Might I have a word with Officer Hole?”

“Now you’ve gone and done it,” he says dryly. “I’ll see you later, Sprout. Keep practicing.”

Josephine nods before catching him in a hug and skipping out the door to what he assumes is a running car.

“Very cute, Harry.”

“You heard her, Rakel. She loves math. It’s Algebra she hates. And for good reason. It’s the least practical of the disciplines.”

“Is that so?”

“Just wait until she gets to take Physics. That’s the best math gets for anyone.”

“Are you coming, then?”

Harry blinks. “Uh…yea. I’ll need to work around some stuff but math homework should be a nice change of pace I-”

“The _game_ , Harry! Her basketball game!”

Oh.

“That’s this week?”

“Yes,” Rakel huffs, a bit weary.

“I’ll be there,” he says automatically. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

“Funny. You’ve missed all the others.”

“I have and I’m sorry. It’s just been…a lot lately.”

Rakel nods, smiling sympathetically. “I know you’re trying. And I know you have your work. But Josephine would be thrilled to have you there. She cares for you deeply, you know.”

“That’s one of you, at least.”

“Don’t do that. I’ll always care for you, Harry. And you’ll always care for your badge more. That’s why we couldn’t make it.”

“Suppose your doctor will fill in nicely.”

“I would hope so. We’re getting married in the Summer.”

 

\-------------------------

 

“And I’ve told you once already, Rolf. My anatomy is non-negotiable.”

…

“We barely have enough to care for the children we have! Having another wouldn’t be feasible!”

…

“Well, it’s already done! So all you need to worry about is getting the girls home for dinner. Yea?”

Sylvia Ottersen ends the call and lets her cell phone clatter down to the countertop. She’d just finished lacing her boots when her husband called her. It was the same thing for weeks now. Sylvia was focused on tending to the animals and providing for the family; Rolf was endlessly fretting over a decision that was never his to make in the first place.

She doesn’t bother with her stocking cap, she’s so mad. It’s a line drive that takes her out the back door to retrieve the discarded hatchet from its perch near the steps, and then on to the small barn to resume the work that requires it.

The blade is clear of the dried blood from earlier that day. She has just three chickens left to kill, and then she can worry about cleaning up and setting the table for her twin daughters. Dusk has come on quickly. There’s barely enough light left for Sylvia to find the entrance of the barn without the aid of the overhead lamp.

But it’s just dark enough that Sylvia doesn’t notice the large, husky figure in the nearby wood. Slinking from behind the trees up to the barn, stepping through the open door without a sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my mind I see Lenny Kravitz as Holm. Michael Fassbender would still be Harry as nature intended.


	4. Take It To The Head

_“…old y…I kn…”_

Harry clamps his eyes shut against the noise swimming into his ears. His senses are hopelessly scrambled and they aren’t eased once he realizes he’s moving.

“ _…st lucky…bar_ was on my way.”

Harry turns his head toward the voice, doesn’t yet open his eyes.

“Officer Bratt?”

“Please. I got you off your ass and piled you into the back of my car. We’re far past formalities. Call me Katrine.”

Harry finally eases himself into sight. He’s acclimated to the movement of the vehicle and the day is heavily overcast. In fact, it’s not day at all. He can see the lights of Oslo homes and storefronts whiz by like stars in the ink-black sky. He needs context.

“What was that first bit?”

“I said I told you I knew about the drinking,” she answers without looking back. “Would have never guessed Teddy’s as your favorite bar, but it happened to be on my way.”

Harry wonders for a moment if he will get the chance to see how true that is. There’s another detail that’s bugging him at the moment.

“How did you get me into the car?”

“Oh, yes. The tiny helpless woman lost in the huge, mean world!”

Harry grunts and closes his eyes again as he tries to sit up too fast. “That’s not- Ah!”

“Shush. I know what you meant. And you’re right. You’re heavy as hell, so I had some help.”

Before Harry can ask, he opens his eyes and is greeted by a large, wet tongue that slathers his whole face. He sputters against it, and the furry occupant leaning from the passenger’s seat.

“Scooby Dooby Doo!”

Harry, now alert and awake, gives the dog a pat. “Thanks boy, but I think we all know who you are by now. Where are we going, Katrine?”

She sighs as Scooby turns back forward in his seat. “Thought you’d never ask. We’re going to Sollihøgda.”

“Solli-” Harry props himself up on an arm to get a better look at Katrine. “What the hell is out there?”

“You mean what _isn’t_ out there. There’s been another disappearance. Sylvia Ottersen. Her husband Rolf called it in earlier. Holm already has a crew searching the property.”

“Skarre, too?”

“Sadly, yes, and they’re all waiting.” Katrine lets a beat pass, the unvoiced question passing between them. “The man asked for Harry Hole specifically.”

 

\-------------------------

 

“Sylvia wouldn’t just leave.”

Rolf’s voice is urgent, but still soft in the space of the Ottersen’s family room. Their twin daughters, Olga and Emma, were sent to bed for the night before the call was made. That left Harry and Katrine sitting across from the thin man who peers back through thick lenses in round, steel frames. To be more accurate, Katrine is sitting across from Rolf. Harry is seated in an armchair to the side, next to a handmade paraffin lamp.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean what I said, Officer. W-we had an argument before I went to pick up the girls but, it wasn’t so severe that she would just leave.”

“An argument?” Katrine answers after Harry takes a touch too long. “About what?”

Rolf shakes his head. “Family affairs. Marriage takes work, you know?”

Harry has no plan to respond to that but is thankful for the front door’s interruption all the same. That is until he sees the man who opens it.

“The foot patrol’s here,” Skarre informs them. “They’ve got a cadaver dog with them.”

Harry is lucid enough to notice the flash of temptation behind Katrine’s eyes to shove Skarre out the door. Harry thinks when he gets back to HQ, he’ll have a word with Magnus about phrasing.

“Talk to all the neighbors, yet?”

“Sure did. Still nothing.”

“Get going, then.”

Skarre closes the door behind him and Rolf’s eyes go wide behind his glasses.

“Did he say…cadaver dog?”

“Just a general term,” Harry assures. “They search for living people, too.”

“Is he one of them?”

Rolf gestures to the space between them and realizes that Scooby-Doo snuck in at some point. Pretty quiet for a big dog.

“No, he’s uh, with us.” Harry leans over to collect notes from Katrine. “Let’s see here. You last saw your wife at four, before you and your daughters went to town. What did you do in town?”

“The girls had their violin lessons from five to seven. I took care of the shop during that time.”

“The Ottersen’s own a small shop in Majorstuen,” Katrine says before Harry can ask, “selling handmade African goods.”

Harry taps the lamp beside him. “Kinda like this guy here?”

Rolf agrees. “Not just him. Art, furniture, fabric, clothes, the like. The goods are imported directly from the source and the artisans always get their proper recompense. Sylvia is there a lot, but on Thursday’s we’re open late, so she goes home while I bring the girls in. I take them to their lessons, and when they’re done, I pick them up and take them home. We arrived at seven-thirty.”

“And Sylvia is usually around by this time?”

“Sometimes Sylvia, she has a lot to clean up in the shed, but dinner’s always been ready by the time we return home. That’s how I knew something was wrong.”

“Anyone else work the shop when you don’t?”

“No. Just me and her. It’s all we’ve ever needed. Things are a bit slow usually.”

“I understand. Thank you for your time, Mr. Ottersen. We’ll move along now. Get some rest, if you can.”

 

There are three cars parked outside on the Ottersen’s lawn currently being illuminated by a group of high-powered spotlights. One car belongs to Bratt; another belongs to the patrolmen; the last of the three is a repainted Volvo that belongs to Holm, who is waiting by the door to the shed as Harry carefully takes the path laid out for him.

“Welp,” Holm starts, “it sure _looks_ like a murder scene. Blood, bodies and overturned furniture.”

They all go quiet then, including Skarre who has been working with Harry long enough to recognize his ‘Shut up, I’m detecting’ face. Harry stops briefly at the threshold and holds up a hand, instructing Scooby to stay where he is. To his mild surprise, the dog obeys. He continues into the shed and its one large room. It is lit, barely, by a single hanging bulb. Harry takes care to avoid stepping on the blood staining the floor, as he can’t be certain yet which of it is human or otherwise. As Holm said, there were signs of a struggle. Just…not much else. The tools of the Ottersen’s trade were all stacked up neat in a row on the far side of the room except for one, conspicuous in its absence.

“Think you might need to get your head checked, Hole!” Skarre: silent for as long as he could stand. “You’re investigating the murder of poultry!”

“What a headline that’d be!” Holm joins in, and Harry nearly chuckles at the visage he paints. “Savage Triple Chicken Murder. Voodoo Parrish. Harry Hole Assigned.”

“It’s what I can’t see, Holm, that interests me more.”

Holm takes a moment to look around and nods his agreement. “Yes, of course! The murder weapon! A hatchet really is the only sensible way.”

“That’s not all.”

The forensics officer crouches down with Harry to look closer at where he’s pointing. The wood block used for decapitating the chickens has been tossed some ways from the bodies and directly underneath it is a blank section of floorboards – as if the blood from the rest of the scene is cut short.

“Missed a spot,” Holm quips.

“Yes. But why?”

“So, will you all continue pondering over the fate of the Ottersen’s dinner, or can we get back to investigating?”

“They _are_ investigating.”

This voice belongs to a very terse Katrine Bratt, who is speaking up for the first time.

“Do tell, Miss Transplant, what are we looking for in a blasted barn?”

Bratt sets her jaw as if she’s winding up for something loud and long-winded and Harry sees before the others do. He sends her a look of _Patience, please_ and she exhales silently through her nose.

“Correct me if I’m wrong Mr. Holm – and I’m not – but you can determine time of death by taking the body temperatures of these chickens, can’t you?”

The man answers with an affected American drawl. “Why, I do declare I can!”

“That’s what I thought. See, if we know the time the chickens died, we’ll know about when Mrs. Ottersen took off. Then maybe we can get a decent timeline in order?”

Bratt’s musing is cut off by a whimpering bark, followed by a sharp round of curses. Whomever it is, they are extremely cross with the cadaver dog. Scooby leaves immediately and Harry is the first to walk after him. When he catches up, Scooby is exchanging…noises with the dog as its handler looks on in befuddlement.

“Dog won’t move,” the beat cop says. “Refuses to take another step toward the woods.”

“What’s the word, boy?”

Scooby looks up after more gruffs on his end. “He says he’s scared.”

“Perhaps it’s fox he smells. A lot of them in this forest.”

Skarre waves off the idea. “Holm, why would a big dog like that be afraid of foxes?”

“Maybe it’s never seen one,” Harry says. “What’s important is that it smells a predator. It’s only rational to be fearful of what you don’t know.” Harry exchanges a glance with Scooby-Doo. “The dog that’s not won’t live long.”

“Hey!” the beat cop calls after Harry as he steps away. “Did that dog just talk?”

“No.”

Harry is walking once again along the perimeter of the shed’s walkway. Fresh snow is on the ground and littered with shoe prints. They are all about the same size, but he can tell which ones don’t belong to Sylvia, as they are depressed further down into the snow.

“Get anything from these prints Bjørn?”

“Nada. Need more light for that. I did manage to spot Rolf Ottersen’s boot prints. As well as a set of boots going _to_ the barn but not from it. Maybe she got carried away?”

“A good idea, but the carrier’s prints would have been deeper than they are here. Let’s keep searching.”

“For what, though?”

“Keep an open mind.” Harry turns on his flashlight and moves to the rear of the small barn. “You often don’t know what you’re looking for until you-” _thump!_ “find it.”

Harry opens the back door out onto the edge of the woods behind the Ottersen’s property. In the beam of light, he sees a scrap of fabric caught on a stretch of wood, obviously ripped off a larger article of clothing. He turns the flashlight downward and immediately finds the tracks.

“Two sets of prints. A killer and victim. Out into the night.”

“Yep. That’s why you’re the detective and I’m just the germ cop.”

“Treat this shed like a crime scene until you’re told otherwise. Start work on the birds and tell me what you find.”

“Got it.”

“Scooby-Doo, you should go back to the cars and keep our K-9 friend company.”

Scooby looks from Harry out into the woods and bares his teeth in a growl. Whatever’s out there, he can smell it, too.

“Hey, none of that, you hear? Sylvia’s still out there and someone has to go get her back. I’m not losing another. Not one more.”

Scooby whimpers a bit, but does eventually turn back toward the barn’s entrance.

“Careful! There’s a ronster in there!”

Harry aims his flashlight at the tree line and draws his gun.

“There’s one out here, too.”

 

The darkness is almost opaque. What little moonlight there would have been is shrouded by cloud cover; the only light afforded on the frigid night is the crop of dim lights peering up from the town below. Harry hasn’t been in a cluster of wood like this in over thirty years. He was a boy, visiting his grandmother, and decided to explore. As short day bled into long night, his youthful daydream became a nightmare with every unseen creature of the dark breathing down his neck as he ran for hours in frenzied circles. He found his grandmother’s house through pure animal instinct and the resulting anxiety of the experience stayed with him from that day on.

He feels it again now as he steps further into the forest. He stops to shine the light forward, but is only met by the dancing, ghostly shadows of the trees around him. He cranes his ear and hears – nothing. A deep, unnatural silence even in the dead of night. He keeps on walking, the crunch of snow beneath his shoes filling dead air.

He finds the footprints a few yards later. Following them inward, he realizes that having his single beam of light in the pitch black does nothing to ease him. It partially illuminates his face, and it makes him the most visible object in the forest by literal miles. Harry doesn’t scare easy, but there is a crinkling on his nape; a feeling he is forcefully ignoring that tells him to turn around.

He almost does when he sees the trail end in a shallow stream. The light beam turns up stream and no more prints are visible. Harry has his phone out then, ready to call Holm and get a team ready to properly search the area. His thumb floats above the screen as he spots the tell-tale glint of light on metal.

It‘s at least fifty feet away from his position and only the metal is visible, but Harry can tell without seeing – it’s a hatchet poking out of the snow. No footprints near the object. It must have been thrown. Harry tracks the assumed flight path and once again finds the glint of steel in the darkness. He has to step a bit closer to see what this object is. The swan neck structure and connected wire tips him off. It’s a fox trap. But to trap what, remains unanswered.

This is when Harry notices the trail of smashed snow leading back to the water. Someone was dragged, or did so themselves. He stops as the trail juts further upstream. The light swings up that way and Harry’s legs nearly buckle in shock.

Sylvia Ottersen is looking back at him with her unblinking, sleepy eyes. Her final moments are frozen forever on her face: a woman – a mother – resigned to her fate. Her death. Punctuated with the desecration of a lone snowman. Harry feels his hands shaking as he unlocks his phone to call Holm.

“Rope off the whole area,” he bites out. “I’m calling it in.”

_“Calling in what? What did you find?”_

“A snowman.”

_“And?”_

“The head belongs to Sylvia.”

…

“Follow the footprints.”

That’s all Harry says before he hangs up and backs away from the macabre discovery. His back is up against a tree suddenly, and he lets his legs give way so he can slide down to the ground. He turns off the flashlight. Partly to conserve its battery; partly to escape the unflinching gaze of the woman once known as Sylvia Ottersen.

Her dim, unseeing eyes dug into him, even through the dark of night. An accusatory glare cutting through his windpipe. _Why didn’t you save me?_ she says. _How could you let this happen?_

Harry doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything.

“The rules have changed.”

 

\-------------------------

 

“What does that mean, ‘The rules have changed?’”

Harry Hole and the rest of his team, minus Bjørn Holm and Mystery Inc. are in POB Gunnar Hagen’s office. Photos from the crime scene on the Ottersen farm are spread out on Hagen’s desk and Harry is looking down to avoid them.

“The rules of the game,” Harry answers. “He’s changing them as he goes.”

“He fancies this a game?”

 _sigh!_ “Why else let Sylvia be discovered? He could have whisked her off without a trace. The Snowman is taunting us.”

“And what sort of game _are_ we playing, Hole?” Skarre asks. “Homicide chess?”

Harry’s head is throbbing in his hands. He can see the bottle on his nightstand clear as day. “More like blindfold chess.”

Skarre continues: “So you envision a classic serial killer case. A cold-blooded killer with superior intelligence and a nose for fun and games.” A beat. “Just like ones you profiled in that FBI course? Like the one you met in Aussieland? A worthy opponent for the great Harry Hole!”

Every word from the man’s mouth is wrong, and Harry wants to – should – dispute it. He dissociates instead, staring at the floor until Hagen’s shoes bleed into the linoleum. He becomes alert once more at the sound of Katrine’s voice from behind him.

“I don’t believe he has glory on his mind right now. Not after what he saw tonight.”

“Either way, this case is now top priority from now until it’s solved. Harry, that means we’ll be increasing the size of your team straight away.”

“Gunnar…”

Hagen pauses to look at Harry, who is hunched over now, trying to will away his migraine with his forefingers. He’s been at the station for two hours now, and the night is taking its toll. Hagen sits back in his chair, exchanges a look with Bratt on the nearside.

“Disagree, Harry?”

“Disagree, Boss. Free thinking functions best in small groups. For a case as…special as this, the last thing we need is to drown in information.”

“Drown, huh? Would you like some water wings, Inspector?”

“No. I want Espen Lepsvik. He works in Kripos and he’s good at leading large investigations. Let him set up a group that reports to me. His team and mine will work independent and in-sync of one another. That leaves the press conference in the capable hands of you and the chief superintendent.”

Hagen nods. “Anything else you need for your game?”

Harry hesitates. Never once did he imagine the possibility of his next request. But times are desperate.

“I want Mystery Inc. working in tandem with us full time. Make sure they have access to any intelligence Kripos uncovers. They can get to places we can’t and-”

A shrill warble knifes through the air. It’s Hagen’s landline and the POB is about to answer before Harry holds up a hand and rises from his seat. He has great interest in just who is contacting the head man directly this far past business hours.

“Speaker,” Harry says.

Gunnar presses the button.

_“You could have saved them, Mister Police. I gave you all the clues.”_

Harry grips two sides of the desk and leans down toward the receiver, so as to let the caller hear him more clearly.

“Putting a cell phone inside of a snowman is not a _fucking_ clue, you cunt!”

_“Who is The Snowman? Where does he come from? Where does he go? Answer these questions, or he will return again. Be well, Inspector.”_

The line goes dead, leaving Harry shaking. His teeth are clenched almost to the point of chattering to hold in the emotion. And-

“Howdy all! I’ve g-”

Holm has to scoot out of the way as Harry goes darting out of the office. Suddenly he can feel the walls closing in and there are too many people and his windpipe is clinching and he just needs  _air_. He can't face any of this - not right now. Harry leaves without a word, without looking back.

Holm re-centers himself in the doorway and manages a half-smile.

“I’ll…tell him later.”

 

\-------------------------

 

At 3 AM, Harry is up in his threadbare kitchen. He found it stripped when he returned home, evidence of the mold man’s work. Beside the shelf is a piece of wall missing, marked down the side with lines and numbers he doesn’t understand. For now, they aren’t his concern. That would be the bottle of Jim Beam he pulls from the overhead cabinet.

It had become a provision of his over time. On those nights that Harry was visited by old urges, he made sure to keep some form of spirits nearby, because he knew that if the call was loud enough he’d go any distance to answer.

That leaves him sitting on the edge of his bed caressing the label like an estranged lover. His first stretch of sleep was broken up by Sylvia Ottersen and her white, misshapen body creeping out of the woods into his room. It’s hard to gauge how the mind will react to something that severe, so on this night at least, Harry doesn’t want to chance going back to sleep without company.

He lets the stopper clatter to the floor as the bottle opens. There’s less than ten percent of the contents left and Harry contemplates exactly how much a good night’s sleep is worth to him. His cell phone blinks at him from the night stand and he grabs it with his free hand.

Two messages unread. The first from Rakel, reminding him that she’ll be leaving early. Josephine will need a ride to school. He puts the phone aside and sets his alarm. The second message is from Katrine. No subject line. He turns the phone off without reading it and downs the remaining liquid in the bottle.

The bottle is laid gingerly on the floor as the burn settles into his gut. Harry doesn’t register falling asleep as he draws his sheets around him. He only rolls to his side and stares ahead to the wall, not allowing himself to feel anything.

His sleep is quiet and dreamless. Until it isn’t.


	5. Things You Can Do

A cloudy morning in Oslo and Harry has his elbows draped on the roof of his car in Rakel’s driveway. It isn’t bright enough to warrant shades of any sort, but his headache still makes the aviators on his face a necessity. Harry sips a coffee, waiting for Josephine to finish her morning routine. He doesn’t rush her like Rakel would, if only to give him a few more moments of silence. A silence that ended with the rattling of his cell phone across the metal of the car.

“This is Harry.”

_“It’s Stormann, the mold man.”_

“You sound pretty chipper today.”

_“Better than you, I bet. Saw you on the late-night news. Woman in Sollihøgda. Ghastly stuff. Late night?”_

“Very.”

_“I won’t keep you long, then. I’ve got the results back.”_

“What’s the damage?”

_“It’s fungus, I’m afraid. Aspergillus versicolor.”_

“What’s that mean?”

_“It can be any color. If and when it gets seen. Other than that, it just means I’ll need to take away more of your walls.”_

“You’ve already taken half the kitchen. Might as well take the rest.”

Harry hangs up without getting a response. His tone was more cross than he intended. He wasn’t upset with the mold man at all; it was as if he was talking to someone else. _Something_ else.

There’s a nearby sound cutting through his thoughts and Harry doesn’t realize it’s a car pulling up until the driver’s door on the other side is opened and shut. There’s a boyish-looking man with dirty blonde hair making his way around the front of the car. He’s wearing a white coat over his sweater vest and it registers that this must be Rakel’s doctor.

“And you must be Harry!” He extends his hand. Harry shakes. “Rakel told me about you. But she didn’t say you were _that_ Harry.”

A mental note is made that American cop glasses do not make for a great disguise.

“Rakel doesn’t like to talk about work.”

“No, she doesn’t. I’m Mathias. Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise. You’re a doctor, right?”

“Yes, but on the scholarly level mostly. I still volunteer at the E.R. every now and again but a professor’s hours are much more forgiving.”

“Understandable. I’m certainly not as sprightly as I once was.”

“Maybe that’s why Rakel asked me here.”

“Oh?”

“She told me she texted you last night and received no response. Given recent events it’s clear to see why.”

Mathias holds up the newspaper he carries in his arm. Sylvia Ottersen’s portrait alongside the large block letters of the headline: **DECAPITATED IN THE FOREST**. Harry’s eyes shift behind his blacked-out lenses. Less than twelve hours was all it took. Perhaps a follow-up meeting on protocol was necessary for the Crime Squad.

“Rakel thought you might not be able to make it here this morning-”

“She thought I’d forget,” Harry cuts in. “Not your fault. Sorry you had to make the trip.”

“It’s no bother, really. I thought I might surprise Josephine anyway.”

Harry shrugs wordlessly and sips from his cup. He doesn’t know how to feel about Mathias, but he’s just met him and doesn’t have a strong opinion either way. At the moment.

“Harry! You’re alive?”

Josephine has snuck up on Harry in the driveway and caught his neck in a hug. He smirks tiredly, his coffee dangling from his other hand.

“Sorry to disappoint you, Sprout.”

The girl laughs at him and he’s about to ask about last night’s homework until he sees Josephine look to her side. Harry has completely forgotten the man in their company. His stance is awkward; his smile is tight and cordial, the way all professionals are taught to be.

“Oh,” Josephine says, “hi Mathias. I didn’t see you there. You’ve got your lab coat on. It must be cadaver day.”

“It is, Josephine. We’re saying goodbye to an old friend today. Kjeldsen’s been with us for years. Now Tromsø University will be his new home.”

“I’m sure you’ll miss him, then.”

“Oh, we will to be sure!”

Mathias was completely earnest in his statement and it took Josephine off guard. Harry’s known tenured instructors in his time. The ones at that level saw things…differently. Mathias bids them both goodbye shortly after that, entering his car and driving away. Harry doesn’t watch him leave as he unlocks the car for Josephine to enter.

“He seems nice,” Harry murmurs.

“He’s okay.”

“Just okay?”

“Yeah. He’s good to Mom. Can’t complain.”

“No. Why would you?”

 

\-------------------------

 

Katrine Bratt is already seated in a booth with two mugs of coffee laid out on the table. Harry slips into the seat across from her and tosses the folder full of papers in her direction. Harry had the mind to contact her when he woke up and suggest a private meeting to reorganize the casework. She agreed, even before his offer to pay for breakfast. It was about time the two were properly acquainted.

“Got your last text,” she reaches for the folder. “They’ll have your order out along with mine.”

Harry grunts into his mug and Katrine freezes him with a look. He holds up his free hand, an unspoken question, as she reaches out. To remove his shades.

“Hangover Chic works for you. But I don’t think it’s needed here.”

“Hm,” is all Harry says.

“Ooh. Talkative today. Excellent. We’ll get right to it.”

“Find any matches?”

“Sort of. All the women have blue eyes. All of them had husbands and children. But there was something else, though!” Katrine waits for their plates to be set down in front of them before continuing. “Snow.”

“Snow?”

“Maybe it’s nothing but, I looked closer at the dates. All of the dates, I mean. Most of the disappearances occur in Oslo. Some in other parts of the country. But the one constant? They all coincide with snowfall.”

“Who is The Snowman?” Harry mumbles. “Where does he go?”

“That’s right. The first snow. The Snowman goes where the first snow falls.”

Harry jams his fork hard into a section of his flapjacks, scraping the ceramic plate underneath. “Christ! He spelled it out for us! How many women are we talking?”

“Eleven. One per year.”

“Except this year, where there’s two.” Changing the rules.

“I managed to talk to the Ottersen twins while they were waiting for school to start.”

“And?”

“I asked them what their mother and father were doing on Tuesday.”

“The day Birte Becker disappeared.”

“Exactly. They said their mother took them to see a doctor near ‘the king’s cows.’ That’s got to be the royal Kongsgarden estate in Bygdøy.”

“A doctor in Bygdøy. Ebba Bendiksen told me of a doctor. Idar Vetlesen. Said he assisted Birte Becker with prenatal care. Could it be the same one?”

“No clue. Worth looking into, though.”

“What else did they say?”

“That they all three took a visit to the Kon-Tiki Museum later that day. Rolf was watching the house. Alone.”

Rather convenient timing. So that’s two disappearances that have occurred while Rolf Ottersen was unaccounted for. He’s got no one to corroborate him for Birte Becker and seemingly no customers at his tiny shop to place him there while his wife was being dismembered. Until they can touch base with Rolf, Harry has to put him on the list of potential suspects, no matter how farfetched it seems. And while he’s thinking about it…

“Did we ever follow up with Birte’s husband and boyfriend?”

Katrine quirks a brow at the frankness of Harry’s question. “The police at Gardermoen Airport were allowed access to the passenger lists that night. The only Becker they found was Filip, on the Bergen flight. Skarre made a visit to Erik’s employer, as well. They confirmed him present the night Birte vanished, and on the night of Sylvia’s murder.”

Harry’s flapjacks are clear from his plate, so he starts to cut his link sausage into little pieces with the edge of his fork. Just pieces of meat, everyone.

“I’d say we try and find that doctor, then. Unless you’ve got something better.”

“I do, actually.”

Harry eats a piece of sausage. “Can’t wait.”

“There was a murder and two disappearances in Bergen twelve years ago. The victim was a married woman with a child, and the woman who disappeared was her best friend. That leaves us with a body, a crime scene and a suspect who vanished and was never seen again.”

“And that would be?”

“An officer. Gert Rafto.”

Harry pauses on his last piece of food. “I’ve read up on that case, yes. Didn’t he have a nasty habit of stealing items from crime scenes?”

“Allegedly. Witnesses had Rafto going into the apartment of Onny Hetland before she disappeared. Any search after that turned up nothing. Gone with the wind.”

Harry puts two bills on top of their check. “You think ‘Iron’ Gert Rafto is The Snowman?”

“I think it’s worth looking into to see what happened. Maybe it doesn’t lead anywhere, but it’s a lead, which is more than what we have right now.”

“Hmm. My mentor used to say to me that when you’re trying to deduce something, you should let someone else hear you say it out loud, to see if it sounds idiotic.”

“Yeah?”

“It sounds idiotic.”

Harry stands from the booth and palms the keys in his pocket.

“Tip our waitress,” he says, stepping away. “The coffee was a lifesaver.”

 

\-------------------------

 

“Ah. To whom do I owe the pleasure?”

Harry and Katrine are in Hoffsveien at the home of Filip Becker. Harry has his badge drawn as a formality but Becker steps aside all the same. Harry feels it in the atmosphere as he enters. It drips of sorrow and words unsaid. A child’s grief.

“More questions, Hole? Or are you here to harass my son again?”

“I’d just like to ask Jonas some questions. And to see how he’s doing. Nothing confidential. You’re free to stay.”

“What a gentleman.” Filip storms past the pair into the kitchen. “Ask your questions, then get out of my house!”

Harry’s shoulders slump before he sits down. He’s on the floor like Jonas, who is lying down in front of the blank TV, making a crude drawing of a snowman in crayon. Harry pats his shoulder and Jonas looks at him, almost smiles.

“How are you Jonas?”

“I’m fine, Officer Hole.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Drawing anything in particular today?”

“Nope.”

It’s silent, then. Harry only has one question to ask young Jonas in reality, but he is much less concerned about work right now.

“I’ll be moving in with Erik when the weather turns.”

“Oh? I bet you’re happy about that.”

“Yeah. I am.”

“Jonas. Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure, I guess.”

“I saw two dates marked on your calendar upstairs. Doctor’s visits. Why did your mom take you to the doctor?”

“I’m not supposed to tell anyone. Not even Father.”

“I understand, but we may be close to discovering something that helps us find your mom.”

“Mom isn’t coming back.”

Jonas says this without looking up and Harry feels his tongue dip back into his stomach.

“It’s okay.”

“No!” Harry says a touch too loudly. “No, it’s not okay. We need to find her, Jonas. If there’s even a chance. Can you at least tell me where you went?”

“We went to the big island by the bay.”

“Round about the king’s cows?”

Jonas nods. “There’s a lady named Borghild at the front desk. She let me have a candy after the doctor pricked my arm.”

“Thank you, Jonas. You’ve been a great help.”

“You don’t need to be sad, Officer Hole.” Jonas turns his head, nods at Harry sternly. “I know you did your best. Mom says that’s all we can hope for.”

Jonas turns back to his drawing. Harry sighs heavily. As an investigator, he knows the boy is right. There isn’t always much to be done. But a selfish part of him is still hopeful for closure. For the family certainly, but also for himself. Freedom from his failure.

The detective reaches into his coat pocket and produces a small box that he places next to Jonas. It contains an assortment of two dozen colored pencils, each a different hue. Harry ruffles the youngster’s hair and slowly stands to leave the Becker household for the last time. Katrine follows after him. She never spoke a word.

 

\-------------------------

 

_“The Presidency of the United States is a soul-killing job in the best of circumstances. What we see now is a Commander in Chief being pulled into every conceivable direction. Whether or not he is fit to serve is the least of their worries right now! What you have instead is massive protests, drawing millions into the streets. A record number of lawsuits gumming up an already hopeless legal system. Discourse in every branch has reached levels of divisiveness that have rarely been seen at any point in history!_

_“Even the best CEO of all-time couldn’t operate under these conditions. Every distraction is a peril that sends a once great super power closer to the edge. But fear not! I, Arve Støp have the solution! Not only for my friends in the West, but for all nations! Large and small, impoverished and whole. Decriminalize the sex trade, like we have here in Norway, and watch how quickly your dander decreases! I haven’t met a problem yet in life that couldn’t be-_

Harry doesn’t look away from the road as Katrine turns off his car stereo. No, she hasn’t turned it off. She’s asking if she can plug in her own mp3 player and he tells her to go ahead. He’s never used this function before.

“Do you like Hip Hop?” she asks as she scrolls through.

“I don’t listen to it often. I don’t really know what’s good.”

“[GoldLink](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y-OqT5Po8KQ) it is.”

The opening bars of the song she chose twirl through his car and Harry begins to tap the steering wheel in time to the dancehall beat. He decides he might like this GoldLink fellow. It’s halfway through the first verse when the car crosses the bridge into Bygdøy.

“Is this the price you’ve had to pay, Harry?”

“We all pay a price in this profession, Katrine.”

“I meant the boy. What is he to you?”

“It was nothing.”

“Didn’t look like nothing.”

Harry doesn’t answer, listens to the song’s instrumental percussion-driven bridge swell.

“Is this the price you pay?” she asks again. “To be as good as you are?”

“Keep at it long enough, Bratt,” Frognerkilen Bay passes by on the starboard side, “and you’ll see for yourself.”

 

The woman known as Borghild leans forward in her chair to eye the badges of Harry Hole and Katrine Bratt. “You must be from Oslo PD. I took a call from one of your mates, earlier. He said to expect you. Please, have a seat while I go fetch Dr. Vetlesen.”

The two detectives remain standing as the woman disappears through a door behind her desk. Harry sees Katrine roll her eyes and he nods in agreement.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to Magnus about phone etiquette for a while now.”

“Can I take the lead on this meeting?”

Harry turns her way in question.

“Don’t take this the wrong way but, I don’t want to spook him.”

“Two cops showing up to his office unannounced? He’s probably spooked already. But I get it. Don’t worry. I’ll sit in the corner and be a good boy.”

“Officers? The doctor will see you now.”

The first thing Harry notices as he steps into Idar Vetlesen’s office is the size. There is a row of papers framed above his desk: one that certifies him as an OB/GYN, but there’s another license he’s _not_ expecting and judging by Katrine’s glance to the pamphlet on the large desk, she’s thinking the same thing.

“When my secretary told me Oslo PD would be dropping by,” Vetlesen says before turning from his computer, “she didn’t say the greatest P.I. in all of Norway would be coming along!”

The doctor gets an eye of Harry’s badge. “I’m not private. We’re here on business.”

“By all means, do tell.”

Idar Vetlesen is casual to the point of comedy, leaning back in his chair with fingertips perched ever-so slightly on the arm rests. It’s like he’s keeping himself from bouncing in his seat. Speed, Harry thinks. Or maybe cocaine. He leans into the bookcase and knows Katrine sees it, too.

“You’re a plastic surgeon?”

“A rather crude term, miss, but yes that’s what I am. I did all I could with the guys and gals on call and now I offer my services in the vanity sphere. Always a market. Inspector Hole for example! Facelift? Penis enlargement? Liposuction? There are options for a celebrity like you.”

Harry doesn’t break eye contact with Vetlesen as he pulls out a cigarette and lights it in the office.

“I’m just curious,” Katrine says, “because it seems you work on women quite often. Children, too.”

“I’ve spoken already with Borghild, Miss Bratt. I know why you’re here and understand the grave circumstances at hand. All the same, I’m afraid I’ll be of no help today.”

Katrine frowns. “You won’t?”

“My Hippocratic Oath tethers me to silence. Whatever information you may have obtained, I cannot disclose who has passed through these doors for whatever reason they chose to.”

“Why would Sylvia Ottersen lie to her husband about seeing you with the twins?”

Katrine gets more forward with the questioning. Harry agrees.

“I know it seems…off, Officer, but remember that most of our clients here are famous folk exposed to unwanted gossip and press attention. Why, some of the men at my curling club come in to have _dangling_ parts trimmed here and there. They would swoon at the very suggestion of their visits being made public. Discretion is our reputation, and if word got around that we were sloppy with patient info, it would be the end of this firm. Surely, you understand.”

“I understand that you’re using that medical license for more than just a nip and tuck.”

Katrine Bratt is very good at her job, Harry realizes.

“I don’t like to be hamstrung by the letters behind my name. I don’t have a vocation. I am but a humble sculptor. I like to change faces. Always have. Now I get a chance to do what I’m good at and get paid for it. That’s all, really.”

Vetlesen sits back in his chair more somehow, hoping Bratt will presume the interview is over. It doesn’t work and she speaks on.

“It’s more than that, I’m afraid. We have two murder victims with one thing in common. Birte Becker and Sylvia Ottersen both made visits to your clinic.”

Vetlesen forms a tight line with his mouth that makes him look closer to his real age. “I can neither confirm or deny that nugget. But!” He slaps his hands on the desk. Bratt does not flinch. “Let’s say for the sake of continuing this thread that it’s true. Who cares? Norway is a small country of few people and fewer doctors. We are, on average, three handshakes or less from having met one another. That two people have been to the same doctor is no more shocking than two people meeting on the tram.”

“It was a long trip for me and my partner to be told you won’t tell us anything.”

“I’m sorry. I let you enter my office because I assumed it was here or the station. The same station where comings and goings are scrutinized constantly by the press.”

“Well,” she says, shooting a glance at Harry, “I wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable. We’ll be in touch, Mr. Vetlesen.”

“ _Doctor_ Vetlesen.”

“Right.”

“Oh! You’re Syrian, aren’t you?”

Katrine turns slightly at that, sees Harry’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline.

“Half, actually,” she says.

Vetlesen seems tickled by this. “Do forgive me, I see so many different faces in this line of work. The strong jawline was a clue, but the bridge of your nose gave it away in the end.”

Katrine doesn’t say anything to that. She turns fully to Vetlesen with her hands on her hips. Harry has his arms crossed, waiting.

“You could almost pass for Caucasian. Almost. If you’d like we could work out a date to correct that. Someone like you can’t be too careful in Europe these days.”

Officer Bratt shifts her stance, pointing her right side in Vetlesen’s direction and brushing her jacket aside. “I’ve got a badge and a gun, so I think I’ll be just fine.”

Harry holds the door open as she leaves, then looks back and smirks as he nubs out his cigarette into the plant adjacent to the exit.

“Doctor.”

 

\-------------------------

 

Inspector Hole is a bit burnt out by his usual surroundings, so he suggests that the day’s meeting be held in Katrine’s office. He taps on the frame twice and enters, seeing her tacking away on her keyboard.

“Syrian, huh? I would’ve had you as Israeli, for sure.”

“Could you not be a smartass right now? You saw it, right?”

“How could I not? The man was high as a Goodyear blimp. I called Skarre before I came here and told him to pass that photo of Vetlesen to the Narcotics Unit. I think he’s been buying speed.”

“Buying it? You mean like on the street? Don’t doctors have that stuff in their medicine cabinets?”

“Sometimes. But the rules on the declaration of drug supplies are so strict that most would rather buy their dope off a dealer in Skippergata.”

“I should’ve pressed harder,” she swivels side-to-side in her chair. “I was on the right track and I let him push me around.”

“You did fine, Bratt. I would’ve asked him the same things you did. That’s what happens sometimes. It’s hard work being a _bad_ detective, and you aren’t bad.”

“Thanks. But do you buy his whole…deal?”

“Not entirely. Let’s wait for the Narcs to get back to us and see where this goes.”

“What about Bergen?”

“What about it?”

“There’s a link here. Between Rafto and Vetlesen. Crazy, sure, but maybe this is how Rafto’s managed to hide all this time?”

“How?”

“He’s got himself an authentic mask. A facelift.”

Harry grimaces. It’s an ambitious theory in the friendliest terms. He scoots his own chair closer to hers, trying to diminish her fervor.

“I think you may be jumping the gun here. With an investigation of this sort, you have to treat it like a jigsaw puzzle. You’re forcing the pieces into position and it just won’t work. It’s still too early. Be patient.”

“Hmm. Maybe you’re right.”

The phone rings suddenly and Harry moves his chair back to its original position, allowing Katrine to answer the call.

“This is Bratt.”

 _“Howdy, Katrine!”_ Bjørn Holm’s voice chirps from the speaker phone. _“Don’t suppose Harry is camping out in there, is he?”_

“Uh, yeah. How’d you know?”

_“Well, I called his office and got the customary ‘piss off’ message from the machine so I figured-”_

“How’d you know he was here?”

_“Aw, well, you know…”_

“No, we don’t,” Harry cuts in. “What do you have, Holm?”

_“I’ve been on the trail of the murder weapon!”_

“Find it yet?”

_“Maybe. See, I wondered where the burn marks on Sylvia Ottersen’s neck came from. The pathologist told me the small arteries had been cauterized, like you would an amputation. This, of course, had me thinking about my days on the farm.”_

“Of course.”

_“Sometimes, calves would die partway through their birth and the carcass would be too big for the cow to force out unaided. In this case, the vet would use something called a garrote.”_

Katrine creased her eyebrows. “A garrote?”

Harry motioned with his hands. “A small noose on a handle, essentially.”

_“As expected, the Inspector is right! It’s a looped electric filament that can burn through flesh. You grab hold of the handle, switch on the heat and the wire is white hot in fifteen seconds. Then you press a button and the loop begins to tighten around the body and cut through. No sideways movement, so there’s less chance of harming the mother.”_

“A tool like that would explain how he could cut off a person’s head while standing in a stream.”

“And also why there was so little blood anywhere on the scene,” Katrine guesses. “Bjørn, where does one get one of these garrotes?”

_“That’s the thing. The loops haven’t been approved by the Norwegian Ministry of Agriculture yet. You can still own one, of course, but they’re a bugger to get a hold of.”_

“Had to get it from somewhere, though. I’ll have Skarre look into it. Thanks, Holm.”

 _“Hold your drunken horses, Harry!”_ Katrine grins at that. _“There’s something else you should know. It’s about the Snowman letter.”_

“Go on.”

_“Nothing to crow about where the writing’s concerned. The paper used is what’s special. It’s made with mitsumata, Japanese papyrus. They use the bark to make the paper by hand and this sheet happens to be very exclusive. It’s called Kono.”_

“What does that mean?”

_“It means you have to go to a specialty shop to buy it. There’s one on Gamle Drammensveien that sells Kono writing paper. I spoke to the owner, and he said he couldn’t remember the last time anyone ordered the stuff.”_

“Hmpf. Course not.”

_“There’s another shop in Bergen. I talked to the owner of that shop, too. They stopped selling Kono years ago. Mm! But before they decommissioned it, a customer took the whole stack off their hands.”_

“What’s the name?”

_“Hold up. Got it riiiiight here… Ah! Gert Rafto.”_

Harry doesn’t have to, but he looks anyway to see Bratt’s bright blue eyes glaring at him. He is in equal measure thankful and regretful of Bjørn Holm’s meticulous method.

“I’ll have Skarre look into it. Good work, Holm.”

Katrine blinks. “You’ll have _Skarre_ look into it?”

“Skarre _and_ Mystery Incorporated.”

“Why do _they_ get to chase the lead that I uncovered?”

“Because the lead could be a dead end. Say we take the early flight to Bergen. We spend the whole day looking for the Ghost of Rafto, find nothing, then come back. That’s a whole day wasted that could have been spent doing _actual_ detective work!”

“This _is_ real detective work! Don’t you want to know where that letter came from?”

“I know where it came from. Do you know what I don’t know? I don’t know where the murder weapon is, I don’t know what Idar Vetlesen is hiding, and I don’t know if Rolf Ottersen chopped his wife into tiny little pieces. So, let’s start there and work our way down.”

Harry stands to make for the door. He has somewhere to be, but he knows Katrine will be in her office for some time after he leaves, so he attempts to amend himself.

“We have a team for a reason, Katrine. It’s to cover more ground, get more things done. Maybe they _will_ find something in Bergen. That’d be great! But we can find something here in Oslo, too, and until that changes we have to keep at it.”

“Yeah. I get it.”

“Good.” He pauses at the door. “Is that alright?”

“I’m not a child,” she says shortly. “I’ll do my job like I always do.”

Harry wants to nod, but doesn’t. He opens the door instead. “Good night, Katrine.”

 

\-------------------------

 

Mystery Inc. is gathered in a restaurant in downtown Oslo not far from the suites they are staying in. They’ve sat down for the evening buffet: partly so they wouldn’t have to coordinate multiple orders, but also to keep Shaggy and Scooby’s appetite from putting too big a dent in their budget. The latter two were piling plates high in the food line; Fred, Daphne and Velma were seated at a table near the center, scanning through files on Velma’s laptop.

“Alright, gang, let’s reset. What do we know about The Snowman based on the clues we have right now?”

Daphne taps a finger to her chin. “All the victims are married women with children. And all of them disappeared on the first snow of the season. Maybe this Snowman has some freaky OCD? Like his crimes are triggered by something?”

“At the very least he’s a misogynist,” Velma reasons. “Unfortunately, he’s a misogynist with a body count.”

“How do you know the Snowman is a he?”

“Frankly, it’s the only outcome that makes sense. Take a look at Daphne’s Twitter mentions sometime. The greatest danger to the human female has been and still is their male counterparts.”

“She’s right, Freddie.” Daphne loosely drapes her arm around Fred’s shoulder. “You’re a sweetheart and I know you aren’t like them, but a lot of them aren’t like you, either. Some people only live to see other people get hurt.”

“Can’t argue with that. So, how do we find this creep?”

Velma starts typing again with renewed vigor. “It’ll take some serious footwork. I’m thinking we should head back to the previous crime scene and make a new perimeter. The five of us spread out and see what we find.”

“But Scoob was already there, wasn’t he?”

“Scooby isn’t perfect,” Velma pauses to sip her drink. “Maybe he missed something. Maybe he needs more time to look. A lot of things could be hidden in those woods.”

“Oh!” Daphne exclaims in time with the ping on her phone. “We just got an email from Officer Bratt!”

“Let’s take a look, then.”

Fred and Daphne hover closer to Velma’s laptop while she navigates to the message. She is a much faster reader, so she takes in the message to pass it along to her friends.

“Looks like a break in the case. The folks at Oslo PD have traced the Snowman letter sent to Harry back to Bergen.”

“Where’s that exactly?”

“A city on the western edge of Norway. We’ve got tickets booked for an early flight tomorrow.”

“Hey! Are these two with you?”

The three at the table look up to see a rather large and sweaty man in a chef’s uniform holding Shaggy and Scooby by their collars.

“Yes, sir, they are. What seems to be the problem?”

“The problem?!” The man releases the two by pushing them away, roughly. “The _problem_ is that these two swine have cleaned out my kitchen! We will have to suspend services while more food is ordered! So, take your gluttons and leave my restaurant!”

“But like…the sign said All You Can Eat.”

“OUUUUUT!”

 

\-------------------------

 

Harry is in Rakel’s house and has been at the dining room table with Josephine for an hour now. She has her Algebra homework laid out in several sections across the table. Harry still remembers much of his schooling, even now, but he definitely doesn’t remember being given this much to take home.

“Egregious,” Harry mutters. “What’s the point of being away from school if you have all this blasted work to do?”

“I know!” Josephine agrees. “Finally, someone understands! Having homework in any class is a waste.”

“Any task that grants you more experience can never be considered wasteful.”

Josephine keeps plugging away at her worksheet. Harry _does_ look up to see, “Mathias. Hello. Didn’t know you were here.”

He shrugs, smiling. “Me and the future Mrs. aren’t nearly that lively in conversation.”

Numbly, Harry concurs. Then, he remembers the nugget he dug up at his office earlier that day. Turns out Mathias is just the man he wants to see.

“If it’s not too much trouble, perhaps we can have a conversation as well?”

Josephine whips her head up. “Is this work related?” she chirps.

“It is, Sprout. Very sensitive intel. Think this might be a good spot for a break, yeah?”

“Aww! You never let me hear the good stuff!”

“Not true. Besides, when I solve this case, I’ll be able to tell you all about it.” A pinky extends in her direction. “Deal?”

“Deal. Just don’t die, old timer.

“I’ll try my best.”

The teen girl leaves her work as she rises from the table, gives Mathias a small pat on the shoulder, and leaves the two men alone. Mathias takes the empty seat and holds out his hands – a silent request for Harry to continue.

“Have you worked with a man named Idar Vetlesen?”

Mathias looks surprised. “Idar? Why, yes. Years ago, at the Marienlyst Clinic. Good grief, do you know him?”

“I interviewed him. Then I found his name on an old web site listing doctors employed by the clinic. Your name was there, too.”

“Haha! Yes, yes! We did have much fun at the clinic. It started in the days when everyone believed that private health ventures were sure to make a _lot_ of money. We disbanded when we found out things didn’t always work that way.”

“You went under?”

“Disbanded,” he corrects. “Downsized, if you will. But what about Idar? What did you two get on about?”

“His name came up during my investigation. Could you tell me what kind of person he is? If you’ve remained in contact?”

“Hmm… No, we’ve lost touch as people do. Idar was different than the rest of us. Most doctors enter the field because they feel some calling to the profession. He didn’t see it that way. Idar studied medicine because the job paid the most and was respected the best. If nothing else, you must respect the man’s honesty.”

“Were you aware that he’s a plastic surgeon?”

“Oh, yes. No one was terribly surprised to find that out. The kind of people he treats, he’s always been attracted to their sort. He wants to be like them, run in their circles. I imagine they are friendly to him in person, his patients. In private, though, they must see him as a bother – pretentious, even.

“Do you?”

“Pretentious? No. Driven? Absolutely.”

“Driven to do what, exactly?”

“Driven to find his mission in life. Something to bring him the fame he desires most.”

“Can you imagine him finding that mission outside of medicine?”

“I haven’t thought about it that way, Inspector. Idar isn’t really a born doctor.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“He’s always been the same from the start. Myself, and the others in our little group, began our journey as idealists. But eventually, like all professionals, we became more occupied with paying for the garage and the cars to fill it. At least Idar’s ideals are his own.”

Harry nods then stands, extending his hand. “Thank you for your time, Mathias. You’ve been a great help.”

“It’s a grave matter, this case.” Mathias shakes his hand. “I’m glad I could help in some way, but I must be going. An early start at the University.”

“I understand.”

Harry follows Mathias out of the room, hands in his pockets. He isn’t feeling very cordial but the front room is on the way to the den, where Rakel is. Mathias is standing in the open door when he turns on his heel, stopping Harry in his tracks.

“Something else?”

“You’re very lucky, Harry.”

The statement is abrupt and Harry creases his brow. “How do you figure?”

“Josephine adores you. You don’t even have to try. Just showing up is good enough. I can clap and cheer, offer every gesture and platitude they say a good father should, but the best I can manage is a pat on the shoulder.” He pantomimes this by patting his collarbone with his palm. “You’ll have to share your secret with me.”

Harry doesn’t pull his phone from his jacket’s pocket until the door closes. The recording application has already been stopped and he saves the audio to his phone, so he can take precise notes later.

 

When he finds Rakel in the den, she is reading one of her magazines and has a record on, as always. He hears a synth-driven pop anthem not from this century. He recognizes the song immediately.

“[Laura Branigan](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ucmo6hDZRSY)?” He picks up the LP’s cover as the vinyl spins. “You hate American music.”

“Josephine has been playing these records you gave her non-stop. Guess you could say they’ve grown on me.”

“A good thing,” Harry says as he parks himself beside her. “I wonder sometimes what kind of music Laura would have made if she had lived to see this decade.”

“She would’ve used 808’s and EDM progression like everyone else.”

“Maybe.” Harry sounds skeptical.

“Why are you so thin?”

“Mold in my walls. Been eating me up for a while now. The fungus grows, I disappear. I’m becoming it; it’s becoming me.”

There is an overly dramatic flair added to this statement with him sinking back into the cushions as if fading away. Rakel laughs at him, swatting his arm aside.

“You are impossible!”

“Speaking of. How’s Josephine getting on with your doctor?”

“His name is Mathias,” she says with a sigh.

“I know his name.”

“They’re working on it. Mathias tries hard, but Josephine isn’t exactly making it easy on him. He works long hours, as well.”

“Hm. Thought you didn’t like your men working?”

Another sigh.

“It wasn’t the long hours, Harry. It was your obsession. You _are_ your job, and what drives you isn’t ambition or responsibility. It’s a want for revenge. You are the angriest man I’ve ever met. It shouldn’t be that way, Harry. You know what happened.”

Harry _does_ know what happened. He allowed that anger to take over his life. And then, that anger – the disease – crept into their home, threatened her daughter. And that was about the end of that. The decision for him to leave was mutual. Rakel grabs his hand as Laura Branigan reaches her crescendo. Her expression is one of sad understanding.

“I wish I could help you. Like your badge helps you.”


	6. Butterfly Effect

“Like, what do you mean we ‘shouldn’t’ go?”

“It means I think it would be better if you two punted the ball on this one.”

“But why, man?”

“Officer Skarre is coming with us as backup already. There’s no hard feelings, Shag.”

“That’s bogus! You haven’t been concerned about me or Scoob’s feelings at any point on this trip! And like, may I remind you ‘boss man’ that we didn’t even ask to be here!”

“Maybe I’d be able to read you better if you didn’t complain _all_ the time! It’s always ‘Fred, I’m hungry! Fred, I’m wiped out! Fred, I’m scared!’ I can’t babysit you all the time.”

“ _That’s_ the major malfunction, dude! We don’t _need_ a babysitter. We need you to be our friend. Ask us what we want to do. Focus on more than just the mystery for once!”

“The _mystery_ is our livelihood! Without mysteries to solve, we wouldn’t have the funds to go on these trips and you wouldn’t have the money to feed your bottomless appetite!”

“And just what are me and Scooby supposed to do while you’re gone?”

“You’re a big boy, Shaggy. You’ll figure it out. But maybe you could try being proactive for a change. This mystery won’t solve itself.”

Fred walks away from their meeting spot in the lobby of the hotel they are staying in and over to the entrance where Velma and Daphne are waiting. Just outside, underneath the building’s main overhang, Magnus Skarre waits in an idling car that will transport them to the regional airport. The group enters the car; once it disembarks, Shaggy finds a seat on the large sectional sofa.

“Welp. Looks like it’s just me and you today Scoob, ol’ buddy ol’ pal.”

“Did I come at a bad time?”

The two pals look up and see Katrine Bratt standing awkwardly at the precipice of the seating area. Shaggy smiles, shaking the sour mood from his head.

“Like, no way, man! Feel free to kick back with us!”

“I think I will, thanks.”

She sits down and Scooby-Doo immediately moves her way and rests his head in her lap. He whines slightly as she pets his head.

“What’s wrong, boy?”

“They left us,” Scooby says.

“Why would they do that?”

Shaggy shrugs at her question. “Figured they didn’t need us this time I guess.”

“Do you agree?”

“I don’t know, like, Fred must not think we’ve been pulling our weight lately. Sometimes I wonder if we’re even wanted anymore.”

“Yeah. I know the feeling. Say, would you boys like to help me with something?”

Scooby perks up and nearly jumps in her lap, agreeing urgently. Shaggy leans over to corral his friend.

“Sorry about that. Tell us what you need Officer, and we’d be happy to help you out!”

“I think it’s someone else that needs help. I’ve been trying to contact Harry all morning, but there’s been no answer. There’s only one thing that keeps him from answering.”

“Work?”

“The bottle.”

Shaggy tilts his head, not fully grasping the context of the statement. Scooby understands and bows his head sadly.

“Well, if he’s in some kind of trouble we should go help him, right?”

“I’m not sure we can, Norville. Not unless we break into his flat.”

“Like, we won’t have to! I know a guy who can get us in, no sweat!”

“A specialist?”

“Something like that.”

 

\-------------------------

 

Harry jostles himself awake at some point in the midafternoon. He knows this because the backlight from the window isn’t nearly as bright and annoying as it should be. He picks up his cell phone, is greeted by the time and a cluster of texts from Katrine. At least she knew to stop after three attempts.

He hadn’t done nearly enough drinking last night to warrant a day off, but he called in all the same. Not because he was drunk; rather, because he was drowning. Seeing Rakel and her daughter in their own house, so ready and prepared for life without him (and with Mathias) made him feel as worthless as he had been…well, last week when he let another child’s mother die a horrific, grisly death.

He could never go in to work that day, regardless of sobriety. He laid in bed all morning and let the feeling augment until it became too much and he decided to dissipate it with beverages. One beer and then another beer and then a pack of beers and, suddenly, sobriety _was_ an issue and he slunk back to bed.

He is awake again, because of a noise coming from elsewhere in his apartment. The bedroom door was closed, but he could distinctly hear another door open and close. The mold man, no doubt. He’d have no idea Harry stayed home that day.

Even though he doesn’t want to, Harry slips from under his covers and pulls on a pair of sweatpants, not bothering with a shirt. He opens the door into the living room and sees nothing. More accurately, less than what was there before. No trash, no discarded clothing. He doesn’t figure Stormann is in the housekeeping business, so he walks down the hallway into the kitchen and discovers there isn’t a human there at all.

“Scooby-Doo.”

“Rat’s me!” Scooby speaks around a brown paper bag that Harry takes into his hand.

“What’s this?”

“Supper.”

“For me?”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh!”

It’s two sandwiches from Teddy’s, accompanied by a drink on the table: a non-alcoholic drink.

“Suppose you don’t know who it was that rearranged my place?”

Scooby brings one of his paws to his mouth and made like he was closing a zipper. The talking dog, bound by silence. Harry moves to the table, sets the bag down and moves the drink. Underneath it is a letter that he picks up and begins to read.

“It’s from Norville.”

  **Apologies for coming in unannounced. Katrine wanted to check in on you. She said you didn’t seem too hot, so the two of us and Scoob teamed up on this one. Good to see you didn’t croak, dude! And no need to worry about your daughter. We got her to her game, no problem. She totally gets why you couldn’t make it. You’ve got a tough job, man. Maybe take it easy for a while. All the best, Shaggy. PS: I didn’t know they had basketball in Norway. Way cool!**

Harry shouts as he rips the paper in half, exclaims again as he strikes the fridge with the heel of his palm. He’s in his recliner soon enough, choking out sobs from behind clenched teeth. He doesn’t feel sadness, only hurt and anger.

“Useless. Fucking _useless!”_

A paw taps at his knee and Harry looks up through watery eyes to see Scooby-Doo looking up at him. He runs a hand through the fur on his head.

“No, not you. _I’m_ the one who’s useless.”

“Why?”

“You want a list?” The dog tilts its head at the wisecrack, so the man sighs, preparing a real answer. “I haven’t had a good month, boy. I keep making these promises that I can’t follow through on. I promised Jonas I’d find his mother. Promised Josephine I’d get her to the game. Promised Gunnar I’d catch this fucking Snowman and haven’t gotten close to doing _any_ of it!”

A beat passes between them.

“Is that why you didn’t go to work?”

“I… Ah! I don’t know. It gets like this every now and again. Have a hard time feeling productive and I just,” a shrug, “stay down. Does that ever happen to you?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“Really? How do you do that?”

“I’m lucky. I have people who take care of me, so I never worry about anything. As long as I have them, I’ll be okay.”

“Huh. You trust in your friends completely?”

“Yeah, yeah! Don’t you?”

“No,” Harry admits, “I don’t. But maybe I should.” He reaches out with both hands and ruffles the dog’s ears. “You’re alright with me, pup. Wanna help me finish supper?”

“Scooby-Doo!”

 

\-------------------------

 

“Scooby-Doo!”

It’s all Shaggy has time to say before getting tackled to the ground by his dog. Harry is right behind him, closing himself into Katrine Bratt’s office. He sidesteps the friendly fire and takes a seat next to the desk. Katrine is looking over the screen as she speaks.

“Good to see you upright.”

“Thank you. Both of you, I mean. I was in a bad way.”

“I know,” she says, turning his way. “No point of having a partner who won’t get your back when shit gets bad.”

She opens the drawer closest to him to let him look inside. It’s occupied by a single manila folder that he removes and opens. Pictures: each of them with a resolution that implies they’ve been resized and each with a recurring subject.

“Is this Vetlesen?”

“Yep! Your boys in the Narc Unit camped out at the intersection of Skippergata and Tollbugata.”

“Like, what’s there?” Shaggy asks from the floor.

“Dealers, bookies,” Harry says, “Women of the Night.”

“It’s just as you thought, Harry. Vetlesen was looking for a fix. The detective didn’t see him buy any speed, but he _did_ see him go into the Hotel Leon.”

Harry’s eyebrows perk up at that information. “The Leon? Isn’t that a so-called massage parlor?”

“Not quite. The rooms go for four hundred kroner a night. Small rooms that, on the record, are rented by the day. In reality, it’s by the hour. Customers don’t make a habit of asking for receipts.”

“A brothel?”

“Possibly. We’ll have to wait and see when we get there.”

Harry cycles through the pictures, taking mental notes on each one. He stops on the last photo, brings it closer to his face. There’s another man entering the Leon alongside Vetlesen – a man Harry recognizes.

“Arve Fucking Støp.”

“You mean that creep we heard on the radio? Why is _he_ cruising out there?”

“ _That_ is a question.” Harry stands quickly to speak to their guests. “How would you boys like to do some footwork?”

“Hopefully not too much, dude. Like, these boots are killing me!”

“That’s not wh-” _sigh!_ “Let’s just go.”

\------------------------

 

“Just a minute! I’ll be right with you!”

Harry and Katrine are standing at the front desk of the Ottersen’s shop, Taste of Africa. The woman’s voice called to them from somewhere behind the counter, and while they wait, Katrine can see Shaggy and Scooby in the backseat of the car out front. They are plugging away at two triple cheesebugers, blissfully unaware of the outside world.

“You’re sure you don’t want them in here?” Katrine asks.

Harry glances at her, then gives a meaningful look to their surroundings. A room full of ornate, traditional furniture alongside jewelry and pottery clad with tribal designs. All of which was less than indestructible. He looks back to her.

“I’m sure.”

“Okaaaaay! Here we are! Sorry! We don’t usually expect customers this late.”

Harry looks up to the front desk and flinches back instinctively. Katrine doesn’t, but still lets a hand dangle before her. There is confusion, mostly.

“Oh! Bother! Do I have something on my face?”

That was one way of putting it.

“You’re Sylvia Ottersen.”

That was another way of putting it.

Katrine puts a hand on Harry’s arm and flips her badge. “You look like her is what he meant to say.”

“I would hope I look like her! We’re twins, after all. Ane Pedersen is the name. You two police?”

“Yes, ma’am. This is Inspector Harry Hole and I’m Katrine Bratt. We were hoping to speak to Rolf today?”

“I see. Well, afraid you won’t be speaking to him. He’s making arrangements at the funeral parlor. Picking out an urn and the like.”

“Of course,” Harry manages. “Any guesses as to when he’ll be back?”

“Not really, Inspector.”

“Hm. Perhaps you can help us, Ane?”

“Why, I can certainly try! What is it you need?”

“I need to know where Rolf was two nights ago. You weren’t here at the shop with him, were you?”

“No, I wasn’t. I never come in to help unless my sister is unavailable and…as you know, she won’t ever be available now.”

“Are there any records we can see to confirm who’s been through?”

“Ah! Thanks to Sylvia there are! Wait here.”

Ane twirls into the back room and reappears moments later with an open laptop cradled in her arm.

“Here we are,” she sets the computer down. “Taste of Africa made the jump to digital several years ago against Rolf’s many objections. But keeping records on a server saves trees and time, which ultimately got him on our side. He helps the environment and still has time in the evening for his NPR programming. Here we go!”

Ane turns the computer so the two officers can see the screen.

“Two customers between five-thirty and closing time,” she observes. “Getting busier now that the holidays are close by.”

Katrine scans over the text quickly. “One customer at 5:40. Another at 6:32. Hard to do anything outside the shop in that span.”

“Not without closing it,” Harry supplies. “Thank you, Miss Pedersen. When you see Rolf, tell him to give me a call. I may have something to discuss with him later.”

Harry and Katrine enter the car as Shaggy and Scooby finish their food in their seats.

“What favor are you talking about?”

“We may still need him to sign a statement waiving his children’s patient confidentiality.”

“Right, the doctor. Did you want stop by his office again?”

“No, I think today we should visit his clubhouse instead.”

 

\------------------------

 

The Leon Hotel is a worn-in place to say the least. The lobby’s ceiling is high, with a single, wooden staircase leading up to the next level. Harry sees a man climb the steps; very shortly after, he sees two women in varying states of dress climb the steps. He turns his head slightly to the woman beside him. Katrine only nods.

“Alright boys. Katrine and I are going to question the owner. Try and keep a low profile. Act natural.”

“Like, can do, broseph!”

The two speed off before he can say anything further. Katrine nods again and they walk over to the main desk, where an older Swedish man is speaking with a customer.

“And you will be in Room 35. Up the stairs and to the left. Please enjoy your stay!”

“Could I get some help with my bags?”

“Not a problem, sir! Let us take care of that for you!”

It’s Shaggy and Scooby, picking up the man’s luggage dressed in ridiculous bellboy outfits produced from seemingly nowhere. The customer, slightly aloof, follows the two up the stairs. Harry sighs and looks at Katrine again, who shrugs this time.

“Funny, I don’t remember hiring new help… Ah! Welcome! Can I get you folks a room? A suite perhaps for the lady?”

Katrine grins as she pulls out her badge. “Not this time, I’m afraid.”

Harry puts his own badge away and replaces it with the picture given to him in his office. He points to Idar Vetlesen. “Seen this man?”

“Can’t say,” the clerk answers nervously.

Harry points to Arve Støp. “What about him?”

“ _Is_ there…anything else I can help you with, Officers?”

“Yes. We’d like a word with the owner. Børre Hansen, I think his name is?”

The desk clerk swallows hard. “I am he.”

Harry’s deduction was correct. “We know you’re running a brothel here.”

Mr. Hansen surprises them all as he audibly shushes the detective. The animated way he whips his head around to check for observers (as if the police are hiding and not in front of him) makes Katrine smirk.

“I’m running a business here! A legit hotel! I’ve got my license and all my papers in order. Want to see?”

“What you’re doing inside your ‘hotel’ is against the law.”

“You listen to me, now. What my clients are up to is of no interest to me, so long as they pay their bill.”

“We _are_ interested, though.” Harry slaps the picture down onto the desk before him. “Take a closer look.”

Hansen does as he’s asked, shakes his head. “Last I checked, sex work in Norway wasn’t illegal.”

“No,” Katrine says, “but running a brothel is.”

Hansen fights through his anxiety to feign offence at her accusation. She continues.

“As I’m sure you’re aware, at regular intervals the authorities must check to see that hotel regulations are being complied with. Emergency exits from all rooms, submission of foreign guests’ registration forms, fax machine for incoming police inquiries, VAT account.”

“As such,” Harry adds, “we’re considering bringing in the Fraud Squad. Undercover police have observed a certain clientele entering your establishment, and I think they’d like to take a look at their accounts.”

“He rents a room twice a week,” Hansen blurts. “Same one every time. He’s there all evening.”

“He must have several visitors.”

Hansen nods.

“Black or white?”

“Black. Always black.”

“How many?”

“I don’t know. It varies. Eight, twelve? They come in pairs.”

“What name does he sign in under?”

“Dr. White. That’s what they call him.”

“Catchy,” Harry deadpans. “What about _him?”_

He’s pointing to Arve Støp once again, and Hansen nods shakily.

“He comes in with the Doctor. Not together, but the room he buys is always next to the other one.”

Shaggy and Scooby are walking down to the ground floor, chatting excitedly about the apparent tips they’ve been making. Harry gestures at them to wait outside, and they both reply in affirmative. Hansen stares after them before looking to Harry, who is concealing the photo.

“Did that dog just talk?”

“No. Is there anything else?”

“N-no. That’s all I know.”

“Very well. Thank you for your time, sir.”

The two police are but a few steps away when Børre Hansen calls out for their attention.

“Do we have a deal, Officer?”

Harry shares a long look with Katrine. “We don’t make deals. Do you have something to hide?”

“What? No! Haha! Of course not! Everything’s in running order!”

“That’s good. You’ll have nothing to fear when the authorities come. Inspections aren’t my responsibility.”

 

\-------------------------

 

Officer Magnus Skarre is in rainy Bergen with the other three members of Mystery Inc. Inspector Hole relegated the Rafto cold case to be followed up by himself, Fred, Daphne and Velma. Harry was following another lead, he said, that was more time sensitive. That left Skarre sitting in Bergen Police HQ speaking with Knut Müller-Nilsen: Head of the Missing Persons and Violent Crime Unit.

“Iron Rafto,” he says the name with a deep rumble. “No one’s said that name around these parts in years.”

Skarre has his doubts about that, but doesn’t say. “You knew him, though?”

“Knew him?” Müller-Nilsen bellows, follows with a laugh. “The whole precinct knew him. A bit like your boy back in Oslo. Difficult temperament, lone wolf, unreliable and a record as spotty as day-old cheese. But he had an exceptional talent for analysis and intuition. It’s the kind of thing that can’t be taught. No one could deny that. He was driven by…something. Don’t quite know what, but it was obviously extreme, now that we know what happened.”

“What happened?”

Velma asks this question, and Skarre does little to hide his annoyance at her butting in.

“Ah, yes. I guess tourists wouldn’t know. Rafto was violent, and we have witnesses putting him in Onny Hetland’s apartment the day she disappeared. We also discovered later that this woman might have had information about the identity of Laila Aasen’s killer. On top of that, Rafto vanished just after all that mess. It’s most likely that he offed himself, so we never saw the need for a big-time investigation.”

“You don’t think he could’ve run abroad?” Fred asks, and Müller-Nilsen shakes his head no. “Why not?”

“This Unit has the advantage of knowing the suspect very well. It’s plausible he could have left Bergen, but the man just wasn’t the type. It’s simple as that.”

Skarre uses the natural pause to regain control of the conversation. “Any word from relatives at all? Rafto has a daughter, right?”

“No and yes. His parents are no longer with us and his relationship with his ex was…complex, to put it nicely. As far as his daughter goes, well, I’d say she turned out well, considering the upbringing. Clever girl, that one.”

Müller-Nilsen leaves the rest of his answer hanging in the air, as if Skarre is supposed to know like everyone else in Bergen knows. It’s the kind of reputation Gert Rafto has in this town.

“I also heard Rafto had a cabin out on Finnøy. A family property?”

“Yes, indeed. One could imagine needing a quiet place for existential reflection before,” Müller-Nilsen brings two fingers to one side of his head and recoils against an invisible round. “We searched every inch. The cabin, the island, the waters surrounding. Nothing to be found.”

“Even so, I thought we’d take a look.”

“You and your upstart American friends, eh? Hahaha! Go on ahead. Only thing you’ll find out there is a run-down cabin in the woods. Think the ex is keeping it out of spite, myself.”

Daphne hums a skeptical note. “Who exactly is she trying to spite?”

The large man behind the desk shrugs and drapes his hands behind his head. “No one in particular. A woman that angry lashes out at whatever’s closest. Based upon Iron Rafto’s profession, and her relations with him, Bergen PD has always been closest.”

Daphne begins to file her nails, unamused. “Alright.”

Skarre clears his throat loudly. “Thanks again, Captain. We’ll take the reports you given us and go see what we can find.”

Before the group files out, Müller-Nilsen calls for their attention.

“The place hasn’t been touched in years, so you might have trouble finding a way in. But if you _do_ find something, please let us know.”

Skarre nods. “You’ll be the first to know, sir.”

 

\-------------------------

 

Magnus Skarre waited until they were pulling up to Zacharias wharf to ask which one of them would pilot the small rental boat. Daphne Blake said, “Oh, this one’s all me,” like it was obvious. Now, they were skipping across the bay toward Finnøy with Daphne at the helm, and the ease with which her friends are riding along suggests it _is_ that simple.

“You guys don’t have boating clubs here?”

“Not where I’m from, Miss Blake.” Skarre leans over to Fred and nudges him with an elbow. “Think it was a good idea to leave the other two back at the homestead.”

Velma frowns as she recalls their morning departure from the hotel. “You don’t think you were a little too harsh, Fred? Those two are very sensitive.”

“I know, Velma. I didn’t like doing it anymore than you liked watching. But we couldn’t afford to waste time trying to get them inside the cabin.”

“In total agreement!” Skarre says, forcefully. “Besides, with those boys still in Oslo, they can keep an eye on the item of the week.”

Velma narrows her eyes. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Pfft! Come now! Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed! You’re a red-blooded mammalian, Fred, think about it. Bratt is young and unmarried. Hole hasn’t had a decent slice of pie in a hundred moons. Doesn’t take a detective to figure out what happens next. The Girl From Bergen is in love with the Legend From Oslo.”

“You know,” Fred says, “you might be giving your buddy Harry a little too much credit.”

“Or not giving Officer Bratt enough,” Velma adds.

“All I know is, I’m on the ‘under’ side of the office pool.”

“Don’t look know guys, but we’ve reached land!”

 

The cabin is indeed not much to look at. With the windows shuttered, they can’t look inside to see if anything was left behind; the locked door gives them the same problem.

“Welp, suppose we may have to do this the hard way, folks.”

“Hold tight, Magnus. Let’s weigh our options here. Any ideas, girls?”

“You’ve got experience protecting valuables, Daphne. If you wanted to keep a bunch of creepy dudes from getting into your place while you were gone, what would you do?”

“Great question. Hmm…”

Daphne thinks for a time, her eyes scanning across the width of the cabin until they light up with an idea.

“Freddie! Give me a boost?”

Fred puts his back against the door and clasps his hands for Daphne to step into. He lifts her up and wraps an arm around her legs for support. Daphne first runs a hand across the top of the door frame, yielding nothing. Then, she peers to either side, checking the top of the windows. She seems to see something in the bulkhead light over the door. She taps the light and it emits a dull sound, like it’s being occupied. She unscrews the dome, letting dead bugs flutter to the ground – as well as a key, that she catches in midair.

“Score one for the tourist!”

Inside the cabin is just as rundown, the smell of mold overpowering. Three rooms and little furniture, Skarre flips a switch and finds that the lights still work.

“Police must still pay for electricity,” Skarre mumbles. “Looks like there’s a cellar, too.”

“Leave that to us!” Fred exclaims. “Spooky basements are the Mystery Inc. specialty!”

Skarre waves him off. “I won’t fight you for it. Spooky basement’s all yours.”

Fred leads the way down the wooden steps with his flashlight lighting their path. He keeps it on long enough to find another switch and illuminate the rest of the cellar with dirty fluorescent light.

“You know the drill,” Fred says. “Spread out and search for clues.”

The each pick a corner of the room, finding little. As they’d been told, any possession that had been here was cleared out long ago. Fred comes across a large cabinet and winces as he opens against the disused hinges squealed with the effort. Inside is a carpenter’s work station, complete with assorted tools. Perhaps Gert Rafto did more than just catch murderers?

“Jinkies!”

Skarre has joined them by now and the exclamation has him confused.

“Jinkies? Is that some slap-ass American slang?”

“Not slang,” Daphne says. “If Velma says ‘Jinkies’ it means she’s found a clue!”

Fred crouches next to Velma on the far side of the room to see what she’s found. She’s removed a blanket to reveal a pile of freezer drawers, all embossed with the name **ELECTROLUX**. But where is the freezer? Fred looks to his left and sees a doorway underneath the staircase. The group gathers around the opening and see a single red light peering out from the dark, cold room.

“Like I said, sunshine. All yours.”

Fred finds another switch and flips it. Nothing happens, so he opts for the flashlight and shines it into the room. Over a decade and the freezer still works perfectly, the humming of electrics filling the empty room. Fred is met with resistance as he tries to open the door, finding the door padlocked shut. He asks Velma to retrieve the crowbar he found in Rafto’s workspace and calls Skarre into the room. Velma hands him the crowbar and the two men begin to pry the large door open. Their efforts combined throw the door open easily enough – too easily, in fact, as the crowbar clatters to the ground and they both tumble into the wall.

The next sound heard is a terrible scream, loud and piercing through the dark. Fred recognizes it as Daphne and throws himself in front of her without thinking. Before he can react, ask what it was, he turns to see a pair of cold, unseeing eyes from inside the container. The internal lightbulb reveals a man, crusted over by a sheet of ice, his mouth sewn shut. A carrot has replaced his nose and a new smile has been nailed into his face.

The Snowman is complete.

“Well, shit,” Skarre says. “Do you wanna call ‘em, or should I?”


	7. Nightcrawler

A fairly obvious assumption, but this was _not_ the news Harry was expecting back from Bergen.

It’s been four hours since they found Gert Rafto in his cabin on the water and the four investigators who found him are in the air returning to Oslo to confer with the rest of the team. Harry sits in Gunnar Hagen’s office with the chief superintendent, Bjørn Holm, and the POB sitting behind his desk. Even he blanched at the crime scene photos sent over from Bergen.

Harry speaks first as he rubs over his sinus. “Skarre and the others are en route as we speak. And Lepsvik just got off the horn with the boys and girls in Bergen. No autopsy report yet, but the cause of death is fairly plain.” Harry nods at Bjørn to continue.

“Gun in mouth. Bullet through the palate, out the back of the head. Bergen folks found the bullet in the cellar. All other injuries are posthumous.”

“As for blood and cerebral matter?” Hagen asks.

“There may have been residual traces. But myself and Harry spoke with the pathologist and we all agreed…”

“Rafto likely helped make it less messy.”

The chief superintendent mutters something as she re-does her ponytail. Hagen blinks, confused.

“Can someone tell me what that’s supposed to mean?”

“We see it sometimes with suicides, Boss. The victim sucks the air out of the barrel before they shoot themselves. The vacuum it creates makes for less…soiling.”

The POB pales at that revelation. “What would make a man… A cop? To suck out…?”

“Worse ways to die than a bullet in the mouth. Sylvia Ottersen’s proof of that. Before her we’ve never recovered any of the bodies. Rafto would’ve been found sooner if his family hadn’t abandoned all memory of him, which makes me think he was never part of the Snowman’s game.”

“What is the game?” the chief superintendent asks.

“Well,” Holm ventures, “I’m not a legendary detective like Harry, and I’ve taken one less FBI course than he has.  But, I do know that the way bodies are treated can sometimes reveal the motive. So, in this case, what do we know? Rafto’s nose was replaced by a carrot; clearly, he’s thumbing his nose at us.”

“And the stitched-up mouth,” Hagen joins in. “Keep your mouth shut.”

“Sure! If Rafto was as dirty as they say, he may very well have been in on the game, but had thoughts of exposing the killer outright!”

Harry shares a look with the chief superintendent, who has also been silent through most of the meeting. She gestures to him, asking for his opinion.

“It’s all possible, of course. But given the recent findings, I believe the only takeaway is that ‘The Snowman was Here’ and he likes making snowmen. The End.”

Harry is about to segue into the next topic of discussion when they hear the door rather forcefully swing open. Harry stands from his chair but is pushed back down just as quickly by a fuming Katrine Bratt.

“What the hell is your problem?”

“Nothing to see in Bergen, hm?”

“Rafto’s been on ice for twelve years. So, no, there was nothing to see.”

“You…! How could you say that? After Skarre found a fucking crime scene?!”

“Skarre found a crime scene that would have been found _ages_ ago if the Crime Squad in Bergen weren’t such dickheads!”

“Just stop! Okay? I’ve had enough of you talking down to me! You’ve already called me idiotic!”

“Incorrect!” Harry is up out of his chair and nose-to-nose with the shorter Katrine. “I called your _idea_ idiotic. Which it still _is_ , by the way!”

“My idiotic idea that turned out to be right?”

“Your idiotic idea that would’ve taken the whole fucking day! Think about it for a moment, please. Skarre hasn’t even hit the tarmac in Oslo yet. Think about all the tasks you and I completed. We collected new intel. We corroborated Rolf Ottersen’s alibi. We interviewed a new suspect. We know when and where that suspect is going to be tonight, alongside Arve Støp, who may very well be a suspect himself! The only thing Skarre is bringing back from Bergen is another stiff!”

“I see now. It doesn’t count unless you do it, right? The great Harry Hole! Always there to bring the perp to justice!”

“If you’ll recall, what you said was that Iron Rafto was the Snowman. He wasn’t and we aren’t any closer to catching the Snowman than before those lot took off for Bergen! I don’t know what your deal is or why you’re really here, but it’s clear it has nothing to do with finding a killer! You only care about being right!”

Harry is off his feet again, stumbling backwards on one knee into Gunnar Hagen’s desk. Katrine has pie-faced him and if he spots any moisture gather in her eyes, she’s blinked it back in a second.

She quivers as she mutters something in Arabic that he doesn’t understand. She’s considerably louder as she says, “I should have never come here!” before storming out.

While it’s hardly the first time someone’s lashed out at him in this way, he finds it foolish, the possibility of an adult professional getting his feelings hurt, but it’s the most accurate way to describe his mindset. Harry likes Katrine. Likes working with her. But more powerful than any affection he has for anyone is the base and primal need for dominance of a situation. His last words to her had been the mother of all projections. Harry _does_ want to be the one to bring down the Snowman. To avenge those that have been hurt. Because without this cause, there is no Harry Hole.

“You’ve stepped in it this time, Hole. She’ll never want to snog you, now.”

Something snaps in Harry that makes him lunge for the source of that sentence. He feels a pair of strong arms around him and, through the fog of rage, Bjørn Holm’s voice calling out to him. Harry keeps thrashing blindly until he feels a smaller pair of hands on his chest. When he comes back to himself, he sees the chief superintendent inches away.

“I said you’re dismissed, Harry.”

He nods, somehow.

“Get some rest. Get your shit straight. We need you upright.”

The next thing is sees is terror on the face of his friend and superior, Gunnar Hagen. He hadn’t given it a second thought. His first instinct was to assault him and without Bjørn in the room, who knows the damage that would have been done. Or for that matter, the damage done just now. Harry has attacked two of his colleagues in the space of five minutes.

He leaves the office without a word. The door is slammed so hard, the glass of the window cracks.

 

\-------------------------

 

Harry’s invited all of Mystery Inc. to Teddy’s for a meal before what is sure to be a busy night. A server has to push two tables together to seat the whole party. There is, of course, one seat glaringly conspicuous in its emptiness.

“No Katrine, then?”

“No, Velma. She needed some time.”

“Well earned. She’s been working hard. Is that why you called us?”

“Yes, actually. I know you just got back from Bergen, but I’ll need a split operation tonight.”

Fred sucks down some of his soft drink through a straw. “What’s the job?”

“A two-parter.” Harry unfolds a picture from his pocket and slaps it on the table. “This man, Idar Vetlesen, is a person of great interest to this case. We interviewed him yesterday and he clammed up. But we know where he’s going to be and when. So, I’ll need at least one of you to join me on a stakeout.”

“Shag and Scoob are all over it. What about me and the girls?”

Harry points to the other side of the picture. “Arve Støp. Somewhat of a local celebrity.”

“Oh,” Daphne chirps, “like you?”

“Not even in his dreams, young lady. He’s a political pundit and tonight he’s holding a benefit to raise money for Oslo’s bid at the next Winter Olympics. I want eyes on him, and a report back to me.”

“Does Katrine know about this function?”

“She does. We had planned for her to attend while I tailed Vetelsen.” Harry pulls out his phone and begins a text. “I’ll let her know you’re coming. I’d rather she has backup anyway.” He adds an aside quickly. “Arve Støp is a notorious womanizer.”

Fred tilts his head. “Worried about her?”

“Not at all. Katrine doesn’t suffer pricks lightly. But your appearance will likely help. She can’t be too conspicuous.”

It’s a good cover, and most of the table goes right along with it as their food arrives. All except for Daphne, as Harry can feel her staring at him from his peripheral.

 

\-------------------------

 

Katrine Bratt lets the text message from Harry go unread. She can admit to herself finally, after an hour or so of separation, that punching out her boss in front of the head of the precinct maybe wasn’t the best decision she’s made. Still, she’s in no mood to even think about the man right now, and she figures if her days in the capital are numbered, the least she can do is cement her legacy by bringing in The Snowman before the _great_ Harry Hole.

She walks into the party wearing a black dress with a shimmering collar, reaching halfway up her neck. Her lipstick is a deep, vibrant red, making her skin tone pop. She knows how striking she is in the room full of Norwegians. Harry told her of Arve Støp’s reputation _and_ his barely-masked fetish for “ethnic” women. If he had any information about Idar Vetlesen, she’d get it directly from him. And if he figured it as his idea, well, she wouldn’t try to correct him.

“I know this isn’t a black-tie event, Daphne, but you could have tried wearing something less…purple.”

“Purple’s all I had!”

Daphne’s dress, she has to admit, is very pretty. It just wasn’t very good hiding, which is more or less what they should be doing.

“I understand, but we weren’t exactly invited. I got us in on a favor.”

“Wow. Your friend must be pretty good to get us into this party.”

“Tch. Truth be told, she’s not very good. She just knows the right people.”

Daphne agrees with a short hum, then stops herself short of waving wildly to her friends on the far side of the room.

“How much do you know?”

“We know there’s a suspect here somewhere,” she begins to whisper as she walks. “Maybe more.”

“I won’t say no to help. You all can be my ears. I’m getting a drink. Circle the room and meet me by the TV display.”

Katrine isn’t exactly feigning indifference as she sips her drink. She barely manages to socialize with her peers daily, which makes her next to useless at events like this. This doesn’t make her useless at profiling, however, and she knows how predators work. All she has to do is wait.

“Officer.”

“Doctor.”

“Were you waiting on me?”

Katrine almost doesn’t stop the eye roll. “Expecting you.”

“And I was expecting you,” Idar says. “What I _wasn’t_ expecting was your lack of company.”

“I’m with friends tonight,” she looks to shut this notion down immediately.

“I’m not talking about them.” He leans close enough for her to see the sobriety leaving his eyes. “Your partner.”

“He has business of his own.”

“Without you?”

“ _Yes_.”

“Hm. I think she’ll do just fine.”

“I agree!”

Katrine flips her position toward the voice and is blinded briefly by a flash. Arve Støp is on the other side, shooing Vetlesen away with his free hand.

“That will be all, Idar, thank you. Officer Bratt, welcome! When the Good Doctor told me about your visit to his office, I so hoped you would both find your way to my humble get-together!”

“Both?”

“Haha! Yes, my dear, but especially him. This Snowman business has been a massive point of interest for our town. News outlets all over Norway have picked it up! It would be a boon for our cause to have the famous detective updating the public directly.”

Katrine considers the request. She sees Arve Støp’s motive for what it is. Added exposure for his so-called Olympic push supplied by a man as famous in Norway than he is. She plans to tell him about the clear conflict of interests that would arise from this proposal. Information from the case is mostly classified, making any statement Harry would give to likely be two minutes tops. That’s what she thinks, but it’s not what she says.

“Inspector Hole doesn’t like to discuss work off-duty.”

Støp’s expression becomes inquisitive, until he shrugs.

“Not uncommon in your field, I’m sure. Do feel free to stay for the watch party! I’ll begin speaking after the Skeleton Run.”

Katrine doesn’t watch him leave; she looks behind her in the direction that she knows Vetlesen left. There’s no sign of him, and she asks Daphne when she comes back around if she saw him in the room. The answer is no – not the answer she wanted. She sits down and removes her phone from her clutch to send a message of purely professional context.

 

\-------------------------

 

“Vetlesen’s on his way.”

“Huh? Like, how do you know?”

“Katrine told me.”

A slight smile can be heard in Harry’s voice. Without seeing her, there’s no way for him to know if she still wants to assault him or not. Maybe he’s looking too far into it, but getting the message in the first place feels like the plus side to him.

“Two nights a week,” Harry says. “Tuesday and Thursday. Never tardy.”

“Why’s a doctor hangin’ around a dive like this?”

“That’s the fun of a stakeout, Norville. You discover all sorts of things. Things people don’t want you to know.”

Harry points out a pair of patrons entering the Hotel Leon across the street. Through his car windows, they can see a pair of dark-skinned women enter the front door. If Børre Hansen is truthful, Dr. White should be minutes away.

“Isn’t that him?”

Harry looks over at Scooby in the passenger seat, the question on his face. Looking back across the street, he blows a whistle through his teeth. The collar is pulled up, a hat is pulled low, but a flash of blonde hair can be seen from underneath. Just in case the massive medical bag wasn’t tip enough.

“He’s early,” Harry’s said, unlocking his door. “She didn’t say that. Must have spooked him. I know what room he’s in. I’m going to amble outside for a bit. Then, I’m heading inside.”

“Anything you need from us?”

“I need you to watch the exits. Anyone tries to leave, you tail them. Understand?”

They answer with dual salutes, and Harry hops out into the rapidly cooling air. Maybe having a team won’t be so bad.

 

\-------------------------

 

The second qualifying heat of the Skeleton competition is playing on one of the large TVs set up in the lounge area. The Winter Games being the theme of the night, there are two other screens broadcasting various other events. Arve Støp is done speaking up front for now, surrounded currently by rich cohorts and boosters. Katrine needs to know exactly why he and Vetlesen are taking weekly trips to a brothel. An issue. _The_ issue, really: off-duty, there’s no good way to broach that topic.

“Harry sent you here, didn’t he?”

“He suggested it.” Daphne winks. “We volunteered.”

“Why he didn’t show up himself, then?”

“I don’t know. He sounded pretty weird when we brought you up.”

“Weird? Weird how?”

“Weird like…aloof, I guess? He changed the subject pretty quick. Did something happen with you two?”

“We may have had a disagreement at work.”

“Looked like more than that.”

“Tch. Probably not for him. I barged into the office looking for a fight. He provoked me and I…” the sentence trails off into a fist meeting her palm. “I was venting. I guess I was hoping he’d realize that and back down.”

“He didn’t,” Daphne says thoughtfully. “And you didn’t, either. You’re both really smart. And pretty aggressive, when you need to be.”

Katrine frowns, rubs a hand up the length of her arm. “Maybe we shouldn’t continue working together.”

“I mean, he didn’t seem mad just really, like, frustrated? It’s hard to get a read on that guy. But maybe that’s why he’s so good at his job, huh?”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“Ladies.”

Fred sits down on the couch behind them, leaving a partition of cushions in between.

“Any news, Freddie?”

“Yup. Got a text from Shag. It looks like our mystery man just made an appearance.”

“Vetlesen,” Katrine huffs. “Bastard moves fast.”

“Does that mean he’s the Snowman?”

“Dunno, Daph. Harry’s on the inside. If anything goes down, he’ll be there to handle it.”

“I think Arve Støp is in on it, too. Whatever _it_ is.”

“You too, huh?”

Katrine hadn’t been speaking to anyone in particular, but Velma retorts, sitting down next to Fred.

“The Narcs from our station took photos of him and Vetlesen at a local brothel. We’re afraid they might be-”

“Scouting victims.”

“Exactly. This is one of the nights they’re supposed to be over there but, as you can see, the shock jock has his hands full. We should take advantage of that.”

“Extralegal tactics are Fred’s specialty.”

“‘Specialty’ is a strong word,” Fred says, grinning mischievously. “But if a distraction is what you need, I’m happy to inform you that we’ve got the business cornered!”

 

“Herr Støp. These are the friends I was talking about. They are visitors.”

“American visitors, no less!” Støp shakes Fred’s hand only. “I very much hope you’ve enjoyed your stay in our humble city.”

“It’s been great so far, thanks!”

“Then you must spread the word, my young friend! The more people who know, the better chance we have at bringing The Games here to Oslo, where they belong!”

“Belong, you said?”

Arve Støp turns his back to Katrine to fix Velma with an inscrutable look.

“You heard right. The last two Winter Games have been held in sectors that can, at best, be called combative and stand-offish to the rest of the world. Holding competition here would see a return to true sportsmanship, in a region known for peace and prosperity above all else!”

Fred rubs the back of his head, awkwardly. “Well, I mean…you’ve got the snow and cold thing covered.”

“Maybe you could tell us how this campaign got started. We’d be very interested in the story.”

One question is all it takes for the man to take the thread running. He is so busy with the task of regaling his foreign guests that he doesn’t notice that Katrine is not walking with them. He also fails to notice the recent absence of his house key.

 

\-------------------------

 

Harry thinks he’s doing an okay job blending in on the walk outside the Leon. Alright. Maybe it was too good of a job at blending in, because he’s been solicited twice already just standing there smoking. It isn’t exactly a leap to assume that he lives alone. Close quarters in Oslo. The time it takes to finish the smoke is plenty enough for Dr. White to get settled in. He stubs the butt out on the pavement and dips into the busy inn.

Shaggy and Scooby watch him enter from his car and turn their eyes to the shadows between buildings. They’re looking for anything out of place. Anyone suspicious – sneaking in or out. Two minutes after Harry enters-

“Raggy, look!”

“What is it, boy?”

“There! There! There!”

Scooby doesn’t get this excited unless something is up. Shaggy crouches low to peer out the window. Unbeknownst to those outside, a hooded figure is weaving its way in between alleyways.

“Wild, man! It’s just like he said!”

The figure disappears into the shadows behind the building.

“He’s on the move!”

“We have to go, Raggy!”

“You don’t mean like,” _gulp!_ “to follow him, do you?”

“Uh-huh! We promised!”

Scooby is out of the car before Shaggy can protest, and he _really_ wants to. But he won’t leave his best pal to fend for himself; in a moment, he’s outside, too.

“Ohoho! Me and my big mouth!”

The pair take a long, unassuming path around the side of the Leon, not wanting to attract any eyes. Before they can make it to the backway, Shaggy grabs his dog by the collar and stuffing him down between two trash containers and the wall. An All-Terrain Vehicle comes from almost nowhere, moving out into the night, away from Oslo’s center.

“Got a whiff, Scoob?”

“Yeah.”

“Then, like, let’s see where it ends up.”

 

Harry Hole waves to Børre Hansen at the front desk, who returns the gesture weakly. The former walks up to the desk and leans in, beckoning Hansen to do the same. Extra surly tonight.

“Could I interest you in a room tonight…Mr. Hole?”

“Has my acquaintance arrived?” Hansen nods. “That’ll be fine, then.”

A key drops into Harry’s waiting hand. He walks sideways until he sees a bead of sweat finish trickling down Børre Hansen’s jawline, then trudges up the stairs.

The room is to the left of Vetlesen’s. He can hear movement coming from the other side, and makes a loud effort of unlocking and opening the door. No doubt the doctor is expecting his running mate soon. The room is styled in the same manner as the rest of the building. Rustic bordering on dingy. But the oldness is by design, mostly. The Leon had been renovated since Harry had been in Oslo, if the Alexa assistant was any indication. Although, that may have just been the Arve Støp touch more than anything.

Harry takes out his phone and types a message. **Thanks for your help.** His finger hovers over the **Send** button as he realizes just who he was about to send it to. So many things are unclear about their relationship, including whether or not it should even proceed. She’s a great investigator and the first partner in years Harry’s been able to tolerate. He does more than tolerate her, though. And judging by Gunnar Hagen’s little comment, _that_ has been plain to see. The doorknob begins to turn, the message is sent and the phone is concealed.

“I was beginning to wonder how long those blowhards from the curling club would-”

Idar Vetlesen looks as if he needs the door frame to stand. Harry sits with his legs crossed out in front of him. His forest-green coat is draped on the back of the chair and his holster is visible near his ribcage.

“Curling’s not really my game. Now, we could sit and discuss this like two grown adults…”

Vetlesen, in one motion, vanishes from sight and slams the door behind him.

“Or we could do this. Brilliant.”

Harry Hole is far past the point in his career where a chase of any sort excites him - Australia notwithstanding. He takes his time standing and putting on his coat; Idar won’t get far. Two steps to the neighboring door is as far as he gets. Vetlesen managed to lock the door in his panic. The letters behind his name weren’t just for show after all. Harry draws his gun and braces himself against the frame - thinks about the last time he’s had to do this.

“Oslo Police!” followed directly by a heavy boot kicking in the door. The two dark-skinned women are screaming before he fully makes it inside and he angles his gun to the ground. He isn’t here for them. One hand reaches for his ID card to make that clear, but he stops – hears something. One thing. Like someone trying hard not to move.

The ceramic lamp is so close when Harry spins around, he can’t square up as he brings his arm up to block his face. The side of the gun goes smashing through, and the resulting mess has Harry tumbling backwards. He makes it to his feet in time to see Vetlesen clambering over the banister down to the ground floor, where he ducks into the kitchen area. Harry’s MCL weeps at the sight, and he returns to the room.

“Everyone OK?”

Both women nod, still fearful. Harry doesn’t take another step. Instead, he holsters his pistol and takes out a copy of Katrine’s business card, that he holds aloft, waiting for one of the women to take it.

“Her name is Katrine. She’s police like me. Wait for her. She’ll take care of you. Don’t open the door for anyone else. Understand?”

Harry waits for an affirmative answer before crossing to the window. There’s a single light illuminating the space behind the hotel but it’s enough to make out distinct sets of tracks in the snow. Tire tracks. Boot prints. Shoe prints. Paw prints. Harry whistles a tune as he closes the door behind him.

_I know something you don’t know…_

 

\-------------------------

 

Katrine Bratt actually reads the text from her coworker this time. The first she received will be analyzed at a less hectic time and the second one means she’ll have to go to the Leon Hotel. Before any of that, she needs to search Arve Støp’s apartment for any evidence of trafficking or distribution or worse.

His key gets left in the ceramic pot by the front door. Mystery Inc. held his attention long enough for her to make her exit. Judging by the shots he’d taken after his speech, it’d be some time before he noticed it was missing. It wouldn’t take her that long to look; nothing she found could be used as evidence anyway.

She opens the drawers: spare underwires, toiletries, assorted pills and prophylactics. Nothing hidden behind the headboard or under the bed, and the shelves are equally as tidy. At the very least, Arve Støp is a hygienic sex fiend.

Katrine moves to a table on the far side of the room. It’s normal except for the lone piece of paper resting on top. The side that faces up is blank, but she can see the work of black marker bleeding through. Flipping the page reveals two columns of names – female names. Two names have been crossed off the list. The name **Katrine Bratt** is circled.

Katrine lets a squeak of surprise leave her mouth as the silence is smashed apart. She hasn’t been found out, however. The room’s phone is ringing. She should let it go and leave the room. Get to the hotel, call her partner, anything other than what she’s doing now.

“Hello?”

_“I can see you…”_

Katrine whirls to face the window parallel to her. All she can see is the parking lot, as well as the snow-crested trees beyond.

“Who is this?”

_“A new snow falls, Officer. You still haven’t answered the question.”_

“This-” she gathers. “This isn’t a _game,_ dammit!”

_“Oh! And here I was having so much fun.”_

“We’re closing in on you. Me and Hole, both. We’ll take you down together!”

_“Your Inspector has already failed. Another wretch dies tonight, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. Enjoy the party…”_

_click!_

 

\-------------------------

 

It’s a considerable time later when Shaggy and Scooby finish tracking the unknown figure’s getaway vehicle. It sits cold and unmoving behind a large hedge, some ten yards behind the person who had been riding it. He was crouched behind a bush, looking down a beaten path to a diffident two-story home. He has been waiting.

Shaggy and Scooby decide to do the same. They have no want to engage someone dressed like an axe murderer, not if it can be helped.

_snap!_

Shaggy steps on a twig and they both flinch; the sound goes off like cannon fire in their ears. The creeper hears it, too, if the animated flinch is a clue. Before the man can right himself, Shaggy and Scooby scramble to hide. They aren’t in the city anymore, so choices are scant. Eventually, they manage to stack on top of each other, obscured behind the lone street lamp.

The man turns back to see nothing, but keeps looking for a full minute before slowly returning to his crouched position.

Shaggy brings a gloved finger to his mouth in a _shhh_ and lets Scooby climb down before they pad silently to hide behind the forgotten vehicle.

Soon, the only light still on in the house – from the upstairs window – goes dark and the hooded man begins creeping forward. Shaggy shares a nod with his furry friend and they press on. The man has almost reached the front edge of the property when Shaggy stops. He is perilously close to sneezing and Scooby swipes his tail up to halt him. It works. Until Scooby sneezes himself.

A pair of metal containers are knocked over which has the mystery man whisk around, as well as the light in the house come on.

“We’ve been made! Let’s make tracks, Scoob!”

The pair runs yelling out into the trees. They are both fast and feel they have put a good enough distance between them and their new friend. Until two headlights spot them through the darkness.

“Hang on, Raggy!”

Scooby sweeps Shaggy onto his back and uses his four legs to push himself further. He’s keeping ahead of the man tailing them. It’s hard to tell if that is even his intention, but there isn’t enough curiosity to stop and see. Shaggy chances a look behind them and sees the man holding something out to his side as he moves. It’s a handle, with a thin loop of metal at the end. Used for corralling animals.

Shaggy gives a short yelp and urges the dog to go faster. Scooby is going as fast as he can, so he takes a sharp turn to try and lose the cross-terrain vehicle. It takes the same corner, slower, and Scooby makes to take another turn until he sees the massive snow bank in front of him. He jumps it in one bound; the momentum brings him to a skidding halt as Shaggy falls off.

Lights are seen from behind the snow pile, approaching fast. Tires spin and twirl through the snow, then cease. The four-wheeler lurches to a stop, tossing the man from his seat. He lands some feet away, falling awkwardly on his leg. Enough of the snow drift has been knocked away to reveal a wide stump of wood.

“Raggy, now’s our chance! Let’s get outta here!”

Scooby runs off after that. Shaggy works himself to a knee and sees both the man and his weapon discarded on the forest floor. The moonlight glints off the metal of the handle and Shaggy dives to grab it before jumping to his feet and sprinting to catch up to his friend.

The man reaches blindly, not knowing that it was taken. His hand finds nothing, then reaches for his right leg. It’s likely sprained, but the adrenaline and cold make it difficult to tell. It also makes it difficult to push the heavy machinery away from its obstruction. With some effort, the engine turns over, despite the damage.

The would-be attacker ships off in a separate direction with the headlights off. He is obscured by the darkness of the woods. The hunt is postponed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to a lot of Travis Scott while writing this. Can you tell?


	8. Another Round

Everyone who changed at the start of the evening is once again in casual attire by the time Shaggy and Scooby-Doo end up back at the station. Fred meets them both outside Harry’s office to catch them in a massive hug.

“Like, what’s gotten into you?”

“Not a thing!” Fred releases them. “I’m just glad you two are okay.”

“Really? After what you said earlier, we thought you were getting tired of us.”

“Never! You guys are my best friends! And I haven’t said that enough. No way we’d be in the game without you guys.”

“Dawww! See, Raggy? He _does_ care! Hehehehe!”

“Got your text, Norville.” Harry joins them in the hallway. “I passed on word about the weapon to Holm. I’m assuming you got it to him?”

“Yeah, man. He actually met us at the door, haha!”

“Sounds like him. Now that we have what is likely the murder weapon, it should lead us to the place it was obtained and thus, the person who obtained it. You did good work, boys.”

Harry holds out his hand to let Scooby ‘hi-five’ him and shakes with Shaggy as Fred walks up beside him.

“Did you find your man?” he asks.

“I did, but he didn’t want to be found. Flew the coop.”

“So, that creeper who chased me and Scooby-Doo through the woods – you think that was him?”

“Almost certainly.”

Fred asks a heavier, more relevant question: “Do you think he’s the Snowman?”

“At the least, he’s the best candidate right now. Our top priority for now will be finding Idar Vetlesen.”

A buzzing is heard then, in the silence that follows. Harry reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone.

“It’s Katrine,” he says, both of message’s subject and its sender. The picture is of a list with her name circled.

“We saw her at the party like you said,” Fred takes a peek at the message. “She left early. We all thought she came back here.”

“Probably did. She’s following up on something for me.”

“So, like, what are _you_ gonna do?”

Harry puts his phone away and ruffles the fur on Scooby’s head.

“I’m going to return the favor.”

 

\-------------------------

 

“Turns out I left the silly thing in my potted plant before I left! Sober Arve never ceases to amaze me.”

Harry will ask Katrine later how she managed to lift Arve Støp’s house key without having to tongue him. For now, he’s above the offices of the _Liberal_ magazine in the proprietor’s penthouse apartment in Aker Brygge.

The apartment is actually three spliced together. The added space affords Arve extra rooms for reading, record playing, and stargazing. It only requires the absence of one wall to create the expansive living room they are now walking into. Directly outside the bay windows is a view of the Oslo Fjord, the canal running just below them.

“Can I interest you in a drink?” Arve asks from the kitchen. “Water? Wine? Cider? Beer?”

Harry takes a seat on the sofa near the window. “Cider, please.”

“Well! Could it be that Harry Hole has dried up?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“So be it.”

Arve returns with two bottles, handing Harry the non-alcoholic drink.

“I’ll stick with the beer if you don’t mind. So, tell me, what business does the legendary detective have with the old paper boy?”

“It’s about Idar Vetlesen. I understand that you know him?”

“Idar?” Arve sips his beer, recalling information both men know he knows. “Oh, Idar! Naturally! He’s my physician, but he also curls with the boys and I some nights.” Another sip. “Well, _we_ curl. What Idar does can only be called sweeping in the kindest terms.”

“I went to question Vetlesen at the Leon Hotel. He attacked me and fled.”

“Ooh. Well, either he’s crazy in a way I hadn’t expected, or perhaps you gave him a very good reason.”

Harry sets the cider down on the table. “In what way would you expect?”

“Idar is a genius in medicine only. In social scenarios he has revealed himself to be flighty and a fool. With this knowledge, I find the idea of him being on the run – one step ahead of you, no less – to be a bit implausible.

“He _is_ on the run. We suspect he may be the Snowman.”

Harry pauses to sip his cider and Arve pointedly doesn’t respond to Harry’s claim as he drinks more beer.

“I’m sure you’ve heard by now,” Harry says.

“I have, unfortunately. The girl missing from Hoff. The woman decapitated in the woods. He’s a madman.”

“Do you think your doctor is that madman?”

“I’ve told you. Idar is crazy, but he isn’t serial killer crazy.”

“What kind of crazy are we talking, then?”

“The same things that make all men crazy, Hole: notoriety, sex, competition.”

Harry watches without a word as Arve Støp crosses the living room and taps the sound-proof glass that makes up the entirety of the huge bay window.

“I’ll bet if he had a view like this, he wouldn’t be so cross.”

“What did you and Vetlesen speak of the last time you saw him?”

Harry asks this question with no segue: an old interrogation trick he learned from his mentor. Leave the interviewee with no time to prepare themselves for the subject, increase the odds of them giving an instinctual answer. Even with the man facing away, Harry can see the gears turning – forming the answer most beneficial to Arve Støp.

“You know,” he says finally after a long sip, “I can’t say I recall.”

“I have a witness putting you and Vetlesen outside the Leon Hotel last Thursday.”

It’s an abrupt follow-up and Arve is only slightly, but still visibly affected. Whatever comes from his mouth next, Harry knows it won’t be the whole story.

“Don’t believe you can arrest me for loitering outside of a hotel, Inspector.”

“Loitering outside of brothel? With a suspected serial killer?”

“Regardless of sex work’s legality in Norway?”

“How about obstructing a murder investigation?”

Arve twitches at the idea of ‘obstruction’ and sweeps over towards Harry’s position with his arms out wide.

“Here now! Just a moment! Is there anything about this case my readers might want to be informed of?”

“Pardon?”

“You asked me before if I believed Idar was your man. My job, you see, is not to believe anything until I’ve been given reason not to. And for good reason! I’m no fan of Idar, but I see no reason to believe he would strike you, or kill those women. Or that fellow from Bergen.”

“So, if I asked you where you were last Tuesday, could you give me a decent picture?”

“Hmm… It sounds like _you_ don’t believe Idar is your man, either.”

Harry grins into his knuckles and stands with the cider in his hand. “Are you really unwilling to corroborate yourself to conceal one night?”

“If all you are accusing me of is being a dirty old codger, I’m afraid the answer is yes.”

“Alright then.”

Harry hands Arve his information before he brushes by him.

“If you remember anything, be sure to give me a call.”

Harry is on the threshold of the penthouse when Arve Støp says, “All respect due, Harry Hole, I think I’ll call for your partner. She seemed very…willing at the party tonight.”

Harry doesn’t stop as he steps out and closes the door.

 

\-------------------------

 

“No, I’m very sorry, Officer. I can’t imagine where he’d be if he isn’t at his office.”

No less than twelve hours after he’s disappeared, Idar Vetlesen’s mother is on the front porch of their large home in Bygdøy. Shaggy is a step behind Katrine and Scooby-Doo sniffs around their feet. The elderly woman pulls her shawl closer against the cold air.

“Can you believe it? Never tells his mother where he goes, what he does. It’s like I never raised him.”

“You must be worried,” Katrine says. “We won’t be long, miss. I only want to take a look around the premises. See if your son has left anything behind.”

“Oh, he does it constantly! Please help yourself. In the meantime, who would like to help me finish my latest batch of cookies?”

Katrine gets squeezed to the side as Shaggy and Scooby rush into the open door, with the old woman giggling after them about how few visitors she gets and “Americans? How funny!”

Katrine lets them go and, instead of walking in herself closes the front door. She notices something that she missed when they pulled up. Footprints, leading from the front walk to the garage and then continuing on the other side. The tracks are crumpled together, as if someone had been pacing. She thinks she sees a second pair, but the prints are too close together and the morning sun has melted too much of the snow.

She follows them anyway to where they curl around the side of the house, through the open fence. Katrine is only one step into the backyard when she stops. The footprints lead further back, up to a closed shed. She pulls her gun from her hip and proceeds on calmly. After hearing of Harry’s nasty surprise last night, she won’t take chances.

Her ear is against the door and she holds her breath to slow her heartbeat. There is no sound from the other side. Katrine aims her pistol with one hand and throws open the shed door with the other. There is a figure seated in the dark, facing her way.

“Oslo Police! Hands up!”

The command gets no response and she begins to search for a light. The switch gets flipped and Katrine recoils, retreating back out of the shed. She draws in a breath, holsters her gun and takes out her phone to call Bjørn Holm.

“Yeah, it’s me. Send a team. No, not him. Harry needs to make a run.”

 

\-------------------------

 

“Excuse me, Mr. Støp, but there are two officers here to see you.”

Arve Støp is hovering over the desk of his graphic designer, debating next week’s, cover when he gets the news. He mutters something to the seated man and makes his way to the office lobby. Harry Hole and Magnus Skarre are waiting for him.

“ _Two_ detectives? This must be more serious than a house call.”

Skarre takes a step forward and stops against Harry’s outstretched arm. Harry shakes his head.

“Idar Vetlesen was found dead on his property this morning.”

Surprise flashes across Arve’s face briefly before he shutters his expression. “What could that possibly have to do with me?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out, mate,” Skarre says.

“You’re coming with us, Støp.”

Arve finally sputters at this. He’s about to push off of Harry before reconsidering and backing away.

“You can’t pull me out of my workplace on a whim!”

Skarre again: “When a man’s swinging buddy winds up dead in a shack we can, and _will_.”

Harry leans close, keeps his voice low. “I could arrest you here, right now. But I don’t want to. Not if there’s an alternative. There’s an unmarked car outside, the lights aren’t on. We need all the information you have. How we get back to the precinct is up to you.”

Arve looks at Harry, glances back to Skarre who gives a short wave, then looks to Harry again and nods, asking for a moment. Arve speaks to his assistant, instructing her on which stories to run and the pages that need printing. He tells her that he’ll only be a moment and stomps out into the damp afternoon with Harry and Skarre close behind.

 

\-------------------------

 

It’s snowing again.

Not a storm, but heavy enough to stick. Harry has a few flakes in his hair while he stands in the hallway. Had it not been from a familiar number, receiving the text **find me** with no context in the middle of the day would have been concerning. Instead, Harry is standing in front of a second-floor apartment, waiting for Katrine Bratt to open the door.

When she does, she is in a t-shirt and long shorts, toweling down her hair from an apparent shower.

“You’re late.”

Harry readjusts the folder in his arm. “Had work. And a guest.”

“I just got back from Vetlesen’s house,” she says turning. “Stop being weird and come in.”

Harry scoffs but does as asked. He’s barely closed the door behind him when he hears, “Leave your boots at the door!” from around the corner and he steps out of his shoes as well.

Harry moves down the hallway where he saw her disappear and comes into a single, large living space. A computer is to one side, stationed on a sturdy fold-out table. On the far side of the room is a widescreen TV with some sort of electronic device parked underneath it. Directly to his left, he sees a small home stereo system, along with a very casual Katrine plugging in her music player.

“Best I could do in-between jobs,” she says gesturing to the space around them.

“It suits you, I think,” Harry takes a look around him. “Sometimes I feel like my flat is too big for one person.”

Katrine shakes her head as she cycles through menus. “I’ve seen your place. It’s fine. You have all the essentials only. Like me.”

“So the Xbox is essential, then?”

Katrine taps the player once and leers sideways at Harry. “It’s a Nintendo. And yes, it’s essential.”

Katrine walks to the other side of the room and grabs something he can’t see from her night stand. Harry hears the opening keys filter through as he moves her way.

“GoldLink again?”

“[Tory Lanez](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kvydugmz1NQ),” she says sitting on the foot of her bed.

She’s wearing glasses now. Harry thinks those suit her as well.

“You’ll have to make me a list.”

“I’d like that.”

She tilts her head at the folder Harry has in his arm.

“Oh, right,” he hands the papers to her. “Casework.”

Katrine flips open the folder and deliberates the top page. Some seconds more of that and she’s tossed the folder into her swivel chair and sent it rolling with her foot back to her computer.

Harry watches it go, then looks down at her. “We should-”

“Later.”

“If this is about earlier-”

“It’s not,” she says, a little annoyed now.

“Good. Because I don’t want you to thi-”

“Shhhh…”

Katrine is on her feet, almost perched on her toes to reach Harry’s lips with her finger. If nothing else, he’s been given less subtle cues to shut up. Katrine brings her arm back down to her side; she frowns at him.

“You’re too tall. Bend over.”

Harry mouths an “Oh” as he complies. Katrine tugs at the sleeves of his sweater until they are hanging loose past his forearms, then she bunches up the fabric over his head until she can grab the hem and pull it free from his torso. Harry blinks in surprise as his clothing gets tossed behind him.

“We don’t need to,” he murmurs.

“I know.” Katrine doesn’t have to reach up as far when she presses her hands to his cheeks. “I want to.”

And then his hands are on each side of her, encasing her ribcage loosely. The room’s heat hasn’t been turned on yet, but Harry can feel no chill.

“Well then,” she whispers, “maybe now you can tell me what took you so long?”

“A flock of meddling American kids.”

Harry inches forward until Katrine’s legs tap the edge of her mattress.

“And their massive dog.”

 

\-------------------------

 

Rakel isn’t a smoker, but she still indulged in sharing a post-coital cigarette with Harry each time without fail – a tradition for the two of them. Harry is doing the same now with Katrine, who is dressed in her shirt once again. His social ineptitude nearly has him waxing nostalgic about his ex in another person’s bed. Before he can, Katrine stubs out the smoke and stands to retrieve Harry’s casework.

“I think the glasses were what did it for me,” Harry teases as she sits back down. It earns him a swat across his bare chest.

“Shut up!”

“I think you should wear them more,” he says, sincerely this time. “You look nice.”

Katrine opens the folder, gliding past the latter part of his comment. “Not when I’m in the field. It’s a hazard, really.”

Harry lets the subject drop. He watches as she sets photos and papers out in a row, idly tapping fingertips across her knee. He hadn’t exactly been looking for her attention, but there’s a question on his mind all the same.

“When’s the last time you were back home?”

“In Bergen?”

“No. Home.”

Katrine’s hands still, and she gives a short chuckle when she realizes which home Harry is talking about.

“The homeland? Heh. I’ve only been once. Few years ago.”

“How was it?”

“You’ve never seen anything more beautiful than Syria in the springtime.”

“How’d you end up here, then? Springtime is a luxury in Oslo.”

Katrine quirks a grin that vanishes quickly as she stares at the far wall. Harry can see the exact moment the memory hits her.

“Gert Rafto was my father.”

Harry feels the air between them deflate.

“My mother emigrated to Norway before I was born. She lived in an abusive home and wanted a fresh start. A trip to America was too costly, so she fled to Europe.”

“Rafto picked her up?”

“She didn’t know any other language. He was patient with her. Taken by her. I guess that’s why I’m sitting here now.”

“It’d be hard to find someone like that in Norway back then. It’d be hard to find them now.”

“That’s what they were counting on…”

“Hm?”

“Bratt is a borrowed surname. From my foster family.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Vetlesen wasn’t wrong, you know? This region isn’t always very welcoming to transplants. Only reason my mother wasn’t snatched up is because the police found her first.”

“Rafto.”

“He was well within his right to ship her back. Which is what happened anyway but…” Katrine swipes moisture from her eyes. “He was already under pressure because of his…methods. Having a half-breed tagging along with him would have made his job near impossible.”

Harry didn’t like the sound of the word ‘half-breed’ out of her mouth. He didn’t like the word in general. It sounded wrong.

“He could have tried.”

Harry keeps looking forward until he feels Katrine shaking against his shoulder. When he looks down, he finds that she’s laughing. It continues as she sits back up and swats his arm.

“Bleeding heart bastard! He didn’t just leave me. I saw him almost every day. Right up until he disappeared.”

Harry brings a hand up to the side of his mouth as realization hits. He closes his eyes and says, “You were trying to clear his name.”

“I may have gotten a little aggressive in Bergen,” Katrine confirms sheepishly. “Got hit with a reprimand and asked for a transfer from the Crime Squad to sexual offenses. I figured going through old rape kits was better than doing nothing. And then I came here because… Hell, I don’t even remember-”

“You thought I could find him. What about your mother?”

“Based in Lebanon these days.”

“Really?”

“She was able to set down roots in Syria for a time but, we agreed this way would be easier for now.” Katrine thinks about it for a long time. Or maybe not. She’s still silent as she stretches out for her phone. “It’s easier if I show you.”

Katrine shows him devastation. Vehicles vaporized by explosives. Empty lots that used to be entire city blocks. Gigantic piles of rubble that were once apartment buildings. Apartment buildings with tenants still inside.

“East Ghouta has become a war zone. The people are surrounded by armed rebels seeking to overthrow a regime, and a sham government that disregards the lives lost in the crossfire.” She continues in Arabic: [It is almost hopeless for them.]

Harry scrolls through the page brought up for him. It’s onto the bodies now. It strikes him how many there are. How young. It doesn’t occur to him to stop until he reaches a picture of a flat bed filled with small forms, each wrapped in a white sheet.

"Some areas are better than others, obviously. She's happier being close to home. She just hopes for the day she can see her home again."

“I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

“Without the proper context, how could you? Being sorry won’t help them. Rafto’s been gone too long for it to matter. The only thing we can do is deal with the stiff we have on our hands now.”

Here is the moment when Harry finally gets a look at the man formally known as Vetlesen. The pictures of the crime scene were developed and placed in the folder separately while he conducted his interview; he hasn’t looked at them yet, but he’s been given an idea. Lethal injection. Suicide. The boys seem to think that The Snowman has met his fate. Harry isn’t so sure.

“Is this how you found him?”

“It is.”

“How long had he been there?”

“Bjørn says overnight at least. A shade under 14 hours.”

“Cause of death?”

Katrine thumbs through the paperwork between them to find the toxicology report Holm had put a mad rush on. “He was found unresponsive in his backyard with a syringe injected into his arm. Trace amounts of carnadrioxide were found in the syringe and later in his body.”

Harry reads a few lines of the pathologist’s notes and creases his brow in measured confusion.

“Did the boys call it a suicide?”

“They didn’t call it, but that’s what everyone thinks it is.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Why?”

Harry points to the notes he was reading. “It says here that all of the contents were injected into his arm. And here,” he points next to a separate line of scribbles. “Holm’s notes indicate how powerful this agent was. Even a small amount would have paralyzed Idar and stopped his heart within minutes.”

“I don’t follow.”

“The syringe was empty, Katrine. If this was a suicide, he would have been dead before he could inject the rest of the fluid.”

“And what about the shock jock? Did he have anything cute to say at HQ?”

“He was surprisingly serious.”

“I’d imagine. You said it wasn’t too late when you left his house. More than enough time to deal with a loose end.”

“It is. But that’s not what he did. He left after I did to sample that night’s flavor, only to find they were absent. Your work, I assume.”

“It was. What’s the story there?”

“Dr. Vetlesen was scouting, but not for victims. He would treat these women when no one else would.”

“Workers get sick, too. What about Støp?”

“Any woman that didn’t need immediate assistance got passed off to him. Pays to be curling buddies.”

“And Støp never wondered-?”

“No. For being a famous reporter, he isn’t too keen on asking questions.”

“A second-hand pervert, but not a serial killer?”

“Correct. He admitted as much in his apartment last night.”

“Okay,” Katrine hums slowly, “but if he didn’t kill Vetlesen and Vetlesen didn’t kill himself… Who did?”

“That,” Harry finishes composing a text message to the mold man, “is a question.

“Guess you’re off, then?”

“Apparently, all the mold’s gone from my flat.”

“That _is_ good news. I thought just maybe you preferred having no walls.”

“You would.”

Harry slips off the mattress and retrieves his shirt and sweater from the floor. Katrine gets up as well, walking towards her computer.

“Is it okay to have you on call for tonight?”

“Erm, I can be, but I would hesitate to call it okay.”

“If not, that’s fine.”

“No, no I can. But it must be serious if you’re asking me.”

“I don’t know if it’s anything yet. I’d just like have someone I trust nearby.”

Katrine eventually works her mouth into a smirk as she takes a seat at her station. Harry is a few steps into the hall when he thinks he hears “Big softie” come from the room behind him.


	9. These Things Happen

Harry almost doesn’t recognize his own flat when he opens the door. It looks like it normally would, of course, but normal for the past week or so has been bare walls and stripped paneling. They’ve all been replaced like new; Harry can’t even see the seams between the boards. He walks into the kitchen and sees the mold man jotting some final notes.

“It’s like you never touched it,” Harry says, walking up.

“The opposite is true, actually.” Stormann punctuates whatever he was writing sharply. “A lot more hiding in the walls than at first glance.”

“But it’s gone now, thanks to you. How much do I owe?”

“Not a single krone, Inspector. Your building’s insurance covered the entire procedure. All I’ll need is the signature.”

There is a decided lack of a pen and paper, which leaves Harry to take the other man’s hand in his own and shake. Stormann turns, halfway to the door when he stops.

“Forget something?” Harry says stepping back to the kitchen.

“No, no. Nothing like that. I just remembered. I had to flip one of the boards in the wall while I was working.”

“Any reason in particular?”

“Cut myself. Bled on the board. Untreated wood is impossible to wash out. The alternative would have been to paint the whole wall red. And that is not in my job description, I’m afraid.”

Harry manages to nod as Stormann leaves his flat, but just barely, as a very dangerous thought occurs to him. It makes no sense, as it stands, but if his hunch is right, it could mean something both exhilarating and terrifying.

Harry grabs his gun from the key bowl on the way out.

 

\-------------------------

 

Harry eases the barn door open with the crowbar in his hand. Rolf Ottersen agreed to let the detective search his grounds one more time, but not without question. The man asked what he was “digging for now” and Harry said that he’d “know immediately or not at all.”

The search starts in the center of the room where the crime took place; more accurately, where the crime began. Upon his first investigation of the shed, Harry came across a piece of fabric that was determined to be torn from a piece of someone’s coat. Holm asked him if he wanted to know the brand. Harry waved him away, saying that the killer’s fashion sense wasn’t the point.

The hatchet missing from the far wall. That was the key issue.

It was found in the woods embedded in the base of a tree. The evidence on the blade was contaminated by the time the rest of the Forensics Unit extracted the blade. Most of the squad assumed it was chickens’ blood anyway, but Harry wasn’t so sure. His earlier hypothesis was disproved with the recent discovery of the _actual_ murder weapon – the mechanical garrote. It wasn’t Sylvia’s blood on the hatchet, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t a human’s.

The chopping block is returned to its upright state, sitting in front of where the birds roost. The blood from Sylvia’s chicken massacre is faded, scrubbed into the floor. Untreated wood.

“The alternative would have been to paint the whole wall red.”

“Or flip the board, eh?”

Harry counts his steps to the plank of wood he recalls being absent of all red hue and jams the curved end of the crowbar into the crease in the floor to pop the board free of its moorings. He pulls the crowbar free, flips it, and slips the flat end into the space between to pry the wood into the air. The underside is coated with a thick coat of dried blood.

Harry resets the plank into the floor and closes the barn door behind him. In his car, he’s dug out his phone, prepared to call Holm and tell him what he’s found. And then, the same crazy thought from minutes before greets him, guiding him to a very specific audio file.

_“Pretentious? No. Driven? Absolutely.”_

_“Driven to do what, exactly?”_

_“Driven to find his mission in life. Something to bring him the fame he desires most.”_

_“Can you imagine him finding that mission outside of medicine?”_

_“I haven’t thought about it that way, Inspector.”_

Harry stops the recording short to dial Holm.

“Whatever your plan is, Harry,” he answers sluggishly, “I assume it’s going to make me leave my warm bed?”

“How soon can you meet me at the university?”

 

\-------------------------

 

“Mathias isn’t here right now.”

“Any idea when he might be back?”

“No idea. But you can take a look in the ice box if you really want to. Won’t find anything but bodies, anyway.”

“That’s what I’m counting on.”

The assistant on call leads Harry and Holm into the room behind the lab that stores the cadavers for later use. Its tiled with a cooled air. The bodies are stored in large metal drawers installed into the wall – not unlike a morgue.

There’s no way for Harry to know which types of bodies have been stored where, so he walks to the far side and asks the assistant to open the first door as he pulls on a pair of gloves. The first body is a man in his middle age. The second is a woman, but not one he recognizes. It’s the same with the next row of drawers. They come to the bottom row of the first wall and the very first box reveals something…interesting.

“This body has no head,” Harry observes.

“Oh, yes,” the assistant hums. “All of the bodies are donated, so we get them in varying states. So long as the torso is in-tact we can make use of them.”

“Uh-huh. Holm, pull out the file on Sylvia Ottersen.”

“You got it. Uhhhh… Here we go! What do you need to know?”

Harry has the deceased woman’s body held up at an angle to get a look at a work of body art on her dermis. “Anything on tattoos?”

“Says she has a tattoo on her lower back-”

“Ethiopian flag?”

“Uh. Yeah. How did...?”

Harry stands aside, still propping up the body, so that Holm can see the tattoo in question. The forensic officer swallows, acknowledges it and jots down a note as Harry walks around him.

“Open the next one.”

Harry takes in a breath and releases it in a ragged exhale. He’s removed the sheet to reveal a young woman with dark brown hair. He knows without double-checking who it is on the slab, but he can’t leave without being sure. A gentle hand wraps itself around the woman’s left wrist; it’s pulled up to eye-level so the room’s occupants can see. The ring finger is missing.

Holm’s voice catches on his throat: “Birte Becker?”

A shudder goes down Harry’s spine. He lets the hand drop. He palms the phone in his pocket as he makes for the exit.

“Get your team out here and go through every one of these containers. No one else leaves this building!

 

Outside in his car, Harry listens for an agonizing period of seconds until the line was answered by a cheery, familiar voice.

“Harry! What a surprise!”

“Rakel, you must be quick to answer. Is Mathias with you right now?”

“Mathias? No, not today. He’s resting at the moment. Seems he had an accident recently. His leg is-”

“Rakel, listen. I need to know where he is.”

“Oh. Is he in some trouble?”

“I don’t know yet. I just need to find him.”

“Well I- Oh! Looks like he’s just walked in now. Hold on. I’ll fetch him.”

“Wait, Rakel, don’t-”

There is a sudden clip and chirp from his phone as a sure sign that the call was ended manually. Harry curses and smacks his steering wheel, causing the horn to beep. He starts his car and dials another number. As he peels out of the parking lot, he urges instruction to Katrine on the other end.

“I need you and a squad car to get to the address I’m about to give you in the next fifteen minutes! Yes, it’s that urgent! I know who the Snowman is!”

 

\-------------------------

 

“Rakel?”

Harry’s gun is drawn on the porch as he notices the front door open ajar. He eases it open and calls out into the threshold.

“Josephine?”

“Harry…”

He tracks her strained voice to the rear sitting room and makes a beeline. His progress is stopped at the doorway. The cold, rigid steel of a revolver’s barrel is pressed firm against Josephine’s head. Her mother is in barely contained hysterics beside her. Harry doesn’t move an iota, but keeps his pistol trained steady on the man between them.

He releases a breath.

“Mathias.”

“Hi there, Harry.” His voice hitches the slightest around his name. “I take it you’ve found Mrs. Becker and her flock of hens?”

“Birte. Sylvia. All of them.”

“And I would expect nothing less of Norway’s greatest Inspector! Where Rafto failed, you passed with flying colors!”

“Is this what you wanted, then? For someone to beat you?”

“What I wanted was to see the look on your face when I won anyway.”

Mathias forces the barrel further into the young girl’s temple. A hoarse croak of “No!” escapes Harry’s throat before he can stop it. He lowers his own gun only slightly. He wants Mathias to bring his heckles down; the pistol remains trained on the blonde man’s heart. Ten years ago, there’s no question he would pull the trigger. But he’s not a young man anymore. And it’s not just anyone on the end of this madman’s gun.

“Please.” De-escalation: he learned in the States it was always the best option. Just not always possible. “She’s only a child. And she’s not who you want. Let her go, and we can do this another way. _Any_ other way.”

“I’m sure you’d like that. While your colleagues from Oslo PD close off the neighborhood?”

“There are only so many ways this can end for you, Mathias.”

“I can think of one, Inspector.”

The click of the hammer goes off like an actual shot in the silence of the room. Harry does lower the gun until it’s finally placed down where the eyes of Mathias tell him he should. Rakel hisses at him for giving up his weapon and he shakes his head in return, putting his hands up. He won’t throw Josephine’s life away.

“Good,” Mathias says, lowering his own gun. “You always did seem quick on the pickup.”

If anyone screams, including himself, the gunshot obscures it. The only thing that registers to Harry as he crumples to the floor is a pain, coming from _somewhere_. He doesn’t feel blood pooling in his sweater, so he dares to look and grinds out a bitter croak of laughter. Harry holds up his left hand and shows them. The ring finger is gone.

“Wasn’t making much use of that one, was I?”

Unbelievably, as if keeping up his end of a bargain they hadn’t even made, Mathias instructs Josephine to leave. She looks up at him and then to Harry, who nods at her.

“I’m not leaving you two here.”

“Yes, yes you are.”

“But…” _sniff!_ “But-”

“Listen to me, Sprout. The only thing that matters right now is keeping you safe. You and your mother’s lives are worth three of mine put together. You have so much more that you can give to the world, but you can only do that if you get _out_. We’ll be right behind you. You just have to go.”

Shakily, Josephine works her way up and only casts one glance back as she hurries to the front of the house. Harry lets his injured hand dangle and manages to breathe properly again.

“Now her.”

Mathias taps the handle of his gun against his earlobe. “Even in the pitiful state you’re in, you’d rather see her go free?”

“It’s me you’ve been after this whole time, right? Snowman?”

Rakel gasps. The past ten minutes of erratic behavior by her fiancé making much more sense.

“I haven’t been after you, necessarily. Just waiting. How did you manage it?”

“With help. I looked at all the cold cases with my partner, and we wondered who in Oslo might have the knowledge to butcher the victims so cleanly. And then the bodies started disappearing. Shameful, perhaps, to say but I never considered a physician before then.”

“All this without recovering the weapon I dropped?”

“Oh, we recovered it. I just made a good guess.”

“How fortunate. If you hadn’t, we might have already been done here.”

Mathias levels his gun once more and keeps eye contact with Harry as he pulls a long, cylindrical object out of a bag. With a twist, the flare sparks to life and Mathias opens the nearby basement door, tossing it into the dark below.

“Mathias. Please don’t do this.”

“Quiet now.”

Rakel is tearful in her plea and Harry finds it curious, even in the circumstance, that the tone from Mathias isn’t venomous in its admonishment. It’s almost the opposite. Like an adult soothing a child.

“Pray that the inhalation gets to you before I do. Well, Harry, would you like to know why? Guilt is not the same as motive, after all.”

“At the risk of being shot again, I don’t care. But you’ve put in so much time and effort destroying families forever. It would be disappointing if I didn’t at least find out.”

“Indeed. You followed the bread trail this far, so I’m sure you found the phantom thread, as it were?”

“The victims,” Harry says, squatting now. “All of them women. All of them married.”

“All of them whores.”

Harry blinks twice, quickly. “Beg your pardon?”

“Every single one, without exception, had a pregnancy by a man outside their relationship. Or, at the least, terminated said pregnancy.”

“Mathias, that’s crazy. And impossible. You can’t tell who someone’s slept with just by looking at them. Or their kids. The only way you could is if…” Harry’s hands are clasped atop his head as he makes a sickening realization. “You had access to a doctor.”

“Idar was a doctor in practice only. But he was still useful when called upon.”

“So, you let him believe you were a pervert instead of a sociopath? Is that it?”

“Idar was a massive slut himself. He would never have understood my mission.”

“No one understands your mission, because it’s rubbish, man!”

“You really think so? Even as a perpetrator sits there in front of you?”

Harry mouths a _what_ and turns to where the gun is now pointed – directly at Rakel. His nose twitches from the increased amount of smoke spilling through the open door; he ignores that and beckons Mathias with his mutilated hand.

“What does that even mean?”

“For months, I have tried to be the good partner. The attentive boyfriend. The dutiful future-husband! I attended the girl’s extra-curriculars, I took off work to get her home from school, I wrote the checks to keep this house from being repossessed! I do everything right, and she thanks me by crawling back to a strung-out gumshoe!”

Harry’s jaw is slack. He takes his healthy hand and runs it across the scruff that’s accumulated in the previous days. Never had he seen someone so obviously and clinically genius read the room _so_ wrong.

“No no _NO!_ You’ve got it all wrong!” Harry shouts, on a knee. “Backwards and upside down! Rakel doesn’t give two shits about me! She was in love with you, you _fucking_ idiot!”

Harry stands fully and staggers one step in Mathias’ direction. The latter man re-aims the gun in Harry’s direction, who opts to keep ranting.

“I came over here one night, under the pretense of helping Josephine with her studies. I _did_ help her, and I thought maybe this good deed warranted a bit of a lay. I hadn’t met you yet, Mathias, but I knew she was engaged to you, and I ignored that fact because I am the fucking worst!”

Harry steps forward until the barrel of the gun is flush with his chest.

“She shut me down! Because she knew it wasn’t the right thing to do! Because she’s a better person than either of us could hope to be!”

Harry takes the gun in his fist and swings it up to his forehead.

“I’m not going to let you kill her, Mathias. So, either you let her go right now or you shoot me, here! Right in my face!”

The room spins in Harry’s vision as he spirals to the ground, struck by the broadside of the gun. He twists to his back, expecting to see the gun still trained on him. Instead, he sees Mathias pointing the weapon towards Rakel. Harry wants to move, but is too dazed.

“That’s not a decision you get to make, Inspector.”

“No… _Stop_.”

There’s a new wave of adrenaline that leaps into his body, but before he can act on it, loud barks are heard from the other side of the door Mathias stands in front of. That door flies open, sending him tumbling into the smoked-filled basement, with Scooby-Doo right behind him.

“Scooby, wait!” Harry scrambles for his gun, “Rakel, get outside! The police are right behind me, find Josephine!” then shields his face as he gives chase downstairs.

The heat blasts his face and staggers him, but the fire and smoke are only spreading through the bannisters in the ceiling. Once he’s made it to the middle portion of the staircase, he’s able to aim his pistol with a clear view of the dog on top of the man. Harry hears a yelp and sees the revolver go skittering across the tile floor and he aims down the sights of his own gun.

“Move, Scooby!”

The dog obeys and a shot is fired, narrowly avoided. Harry leads the shots as Mathias scrambles to the next room, into the dark. Harry ducks low to the ground and regroups with Scooby. He hacks a cough into his sleeve.

“We can’t stay here. Scooby, find us an exit. This won’t take long.”

“Roger that!”

Scooby is off in another direction and Harry is staring into the dark room. He knows this house well. If it were earlier in the evening, he could see exactly where Mathias is hiding. Instead, he gets one guess, as he reaches blindly for the light switch.

Harry makes the right guess, swinging immediately to the other side, but not in time to keep the gun from being knocked out of his hand. He blocks a weak follow-up punch, takes his right hand and drives a fist straight into the other man’s mouth. He moves behind him as he staggers and secures him in a chin-lock. Not enough to choke him out. Dead weight would not help him in a building that was burning down. Harry hears barking, then.

“See that? Sounds like ou-”

Mathias manages to find Harry’s wound and digs his nails into it, forcing Harry to release his hold. Mathias is on top of him soon after, his wild laughter mixing with more barking. The lightbulb above them fizzles out and Harry feels himself fading.

“We’re going to die!” Mathias shouts above him. “We’re going to die, whore!”

 

The detective jolts awake in the cold night air. He can tell it is night by the rare sight of stars overhead. He’s carved out a divot in the snow with his unconscious form – how long he was out, though, what concerns him.

“Sir. You really should stay still. I don’t-”

“Shut up!”

Harry pushes past the young First Responder that has been tending to him, if his newly wrapped left hand is a clue. There is a swirl of colored lights throughout the property and fire crews are tending to the blaze at the rear of the house where he was no doubt pulled from.

None of this accounts for the whereabouts of the man that tried to kill him. Or the dog that saved him in the first place.

“Scooby-Doo! Where are you?!”

“Over here!”

Harry’s head whips back in the direction he came from and he shrugs off the young medic again to jog to the side of the house where Scooby-Doo is running excited circles in the snow. Harry crouches to his eye-level and gives him a generous helping of pats.

“Was this your doing, pup?”

“Uh-uh! Uh-uh! Had help!”

Only a few feet away, Katrine Bratt is standing over a handcuffed Mathias with her gun drawn.

“I won’t ask how,” Harry says, moving closer. “I probably wouldn’t want to know.”

“We both know that’s not true, Harry Hole.”

Katrine glances up to him and Harry spots a mischievous glint in her eye.

“Lucky for you, I’m not the modest type.”


	10. Positive Contact

_tap!_

_tap!_

_tap!_

Harry sits in Cell 23 of the custody block. He is across the room from Mathias, tapping his new prosthetic finger on the metal table beside him. Mathias stares back, handcuffed to his bed.

“Do you like it?” Harry holds up his hand and gives it a twirl. “Got discharged the same night. Can hardly tell the difference, I think.”

The other man says nothing.

“They were able to contain the blaze before it could cause any structural damage. The basement will need renovations but, Rakel has been trying to clear the junk out of there for ages.”

Still, there is no reaction to his words. Harry stops tapping and leans forward in his chair.

“What’s wrong? Upset they didn’t leave you any sheets to strangle yourself with?”

“Waiting for the inevitable, Hole.”

“Hm. If we were in America, I have no doubt they’d kill you without a care. But we’re not in America. You’ll be put in an institution straight away.”

“Wasting away day after day in solitary confinement. No one the wiser.”

“We all have lives to live, Mathias. People will always wonder, but some things are best left to imagination. That’s what the true crime podcast is for.”

Mathias actually starts laughing. Harry doesn’t think the joke was that funny. It could barely be called a joke at all. But he manages a grin despite that.

“I’ll admit, Harry, I didn’t see it at first. Why Josephine and her mother were so taken with you. If I am to be very honest, I feared, perhaps, that I had chosen the wrong man entirely to play my game.”

“You? Influenced by outward appearance?” Harry demurs sarcastically. “Not even!”

“I could hardly be blamed for that!” Mathias doesn’t pick up on the acerbity. “Sloppy and unkempt. Boorish vocabulary. Another thug with a badge. That’s what I saw.”

“And what do you see now?”

“Perhaps what your colleagues get to see. A man with indominable will. The same man who traveled to another continent by himself to bring down a mad dog. I thought, if I could only take that tenacity and distribute it elsewhere in my own life, I could eventually win over the woman and the girl and have some semblance of a normal life. But that’s not what happened. I was doomed to failure, Harry. Maybe it was always going to be this way. From the moment I was born.”

“It’s empathy,” Harry says after a pregnant pause.

Mathias looks up, confused.

“You asked what they saw. It’s human empathy. It’s tough on a policeman, but it’s also what makes me good at what I do. Because with all of the foul, violent and evil shit I’ve encountered in my career, nothing makes me sick to my stomach faster than the idea of a family never knowing what happened to their loved one. Carrying that darkness over them every day of their life. That’s what pushed me to stop you. Eventually, what lead me to you. I _had_ to find the bodies, Mathias.

“And that empathy is that makes living in this world bearable. It’s why I’ve done my best to care for Josephine when her real father wouldn’t. She knows enough to spot the difference. That emotion is not something you can fake. Either you have it, or you don’t. It isn’t your fault that you don’t have it but…you don’t.”

“So that’s it,” Mathias nods slowly. “Play the nice guy. The birds flock to your roost.”

Harry positively sputters.

“Have you been paying attention? At all? Life doesn’t reward you for being a decent person. We do it, because the Planet Earth would be fuck all if we didn’t. You seem to have a hurdle when it comes to this, so let me clue you in to something.

“Velma Dinkley was the one who figured out your disdain for women. Maybe I should have guessed, but she had you pegged from the start. And my partner, Katrine Bratt, saved me and captured you. And if I was like _you_ , I would have turned them away at the beginning and refused their help. I would have never found you out, you would be dead and I would never have got to see that stupid look on your face right now.”

Harry stands from his chair and walks over to the door. It opens to the waiting room outside and Harry turns back, speaking softer than he was.

“You’ve got a lot of blood on your hands. You may never get your freedom. But you still have a life to live. Don’t spend that time in hatred.”

“Harry.”

The detective stops again to look at Mathias, who has shifted to bring his hands together in a light clap.

“Well played.”

 

\-------------------------

 

Harry and Katrine are at Oslo Airport to see off Mystery Inc. The terminal they’re standing at isn’t pointed West, however.

“Hong Kong?” Harry wonders. “What’s out there?”

“Lots of stuff, man! But we’re not staying there.” Shaggy is one again in the shorts and shades he first arrived in. “Like, Hong Kong first, then Hawaii!”

The group shares a laugh as Shaggy and Scooby drop their bags to attempt a traditional luau dance, earning a number of stares from passerby.

“We put our heads together,” Velma said, “and decided that maybe a break from mystery-solving wouldn’t be such a bad idea.”

“It’ll be good to ease off the grind for a bit,” Fred agrees.

“More than a bit. We’re gonna stretch this break out for as long as we can!” Daphne adds. “We might even stop in Hong Kong for a few days.”

“I’ve thought about visiting,” Harry says. “You’ll have to let me know how it is.”

The three of them move aside to let Scooby pad up to Harry. Meeting a talking dog isn’t anywhere near the list of things he thought might happen to him when he began his career all those years ago. Befriending him, having him save his life – did wonders ever cease?

“Couldn’t have done it without you, pup.”

“Ditto! Hehehe!”

“Plan on dropping by to visit us again sometime?”

“Scooby Dooby Doo!”

“I’ll take that as a y-”

Scooby tackles him to the ground and begins to lick his face. By the time Harry regains his bearings, the huge dog is off of him and running ahead of his friends to the gate. Katrine is waving goodbye as he stands. Harry waits for her, then starts walking back to the entrance. He peers over to see his partner smiling up at him.

“What is it, Bratt?”

“Do you think they’ll stay out of trouble?”

“Those four?” he jerks his thumb behind him. “ _And_ a talking dog? Not a chance.”

Harry almost laughs. He probably will everytime he recalls this adventure he had with Scooby-Doo and his friends.

“But something tells me that isn’t what they’d want.”

“And what do you want, Hole? Eager for another case to occupy your time?”

“Very funny. No, what I want right now is a vacation.”

“I hear Bergen is great this time of year.”

“I hear it’s rainy this time of year.”

“It’s never as bad as you East Norwegians think.”

“Whatever you say, Detective Bratt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Thanks For Playing.]
> 
> Now I really need to get back to the Batman standalone. Bye!


End file.
